This is a series of poems i've been working on they're styll in progress so i shall post them accordingly enjoy thnx for reading luv always, Anthony Campbell
I. Overture
I transcribe this now, from the depths of Hell
Betwixt her copper thighs I describe it all
The devil sits above me, she
(Yes, she, for if god is a woman
Then there is no doubt
Only another woman could slight god
In such great amount)
Whispered to me, broiling nightmares
Her hot breath searing my ear
As she reminded me of all that I had lost
And urged me to speak of my past
But I resisted and instead took my pen
Now bonded to my hand
Describing out across the paper
Transcribing onto it the land
Hell truly was a quaint place, rather nice decorum
With crochet classes and public speaking forums
To tell you the truth, Hell was a lot like
Any neighborhood in suburban California
There was a Gap, a Starbucks
A public courtyard
A mall every two miles
Where you could purchase
Various
Goods
In
Great
Variety
Really, what was so hellish about it
Were the anti-climactic public parks and model houses
One expects change from death
Truth and souls
But the horror of hell was that
Nothing had changed through death
At all
So I, the dead young Poet
Lay betwixt the devil's flaming lap
Many gathered, many mingled
Souls of dead and damned
They lingered
Lingered all around us now
Six more souls of ill repute
With charming haircuts and clean buttoned suits
There was the Craftsman, a wistful man
With spores of wrinkles across his hands
His porous, mushroom hair atop his face
He held a shaky cane in both knuckles
Though his ancient knees did bend and buckle
Glinting at the devil with a gracious hate.
Then, the King, standing uncomfortable
Used to leaning on a silver throne
He cruelly glowered
With the false verses of god
He was used to power
But his money and father had no weight here
So he simply stood there, his knees bent severe.
Next, the Prophet stood
With his towering crown
A pious weight above a judging frown
Adorned in garments of heavy gold
He seemed to parody the light of the lord
With furtive eyes, not acknowledging my face
To him this was not hell, just an "unsavory place".
The Artist next, studied us with a vexing glare
His palette glimmered hues, though his colors seemed bare
And his eyes were not amused
An unflinching miserable expression
Resting under a square of hair, all under his hollow eye's depressions
The Merchant stood shielded in his diplomatic wiles
Bringing him nothing but an empty churning isle
Surrounded by the men he had helped fall
But behind his milky spectacles was revealed nothing at all.
The Priest stood next to him, glancing in terror
Past his own bushy mustache
It seemed his fear made his very skin tremor
His very limbs quake
But I sensed verily, warily, that those terrified limbs
Could crush and kill, if only for his own sake.
And finally I, the Poet, the Fool
Poets are nothing but brittle copper
Tools
Wrested in the unrelenting fists of Inspiration
My brain drowning in trite love and guilty perspiration.
The devil smiled in crafty mirth
Searching for some sport
To port upon
Our souls
So she urged again
For us to tell our tales
Of what we had
Done to deserve
This fate
Surrounded by mocha lattes
And community gates
And I, the lowest of them all
The Poet, the Scribe
With my vile muse's call
Would gather their tongues
Into my prose
The devil turned and urged me first
Though she spoke not, we could hear her thirst
She asked me to speak
Of my past life
So vile
So meek
My body's transgressions
I turned my head
And let loose a breath
"Oh, nothing is as cliched
As a poet's death!"
The Craftsman nodded his kind bushy head
”Erebus
I shall go first, in your stead."
