Unfinished

[paperleaves]

in Hell
there will be no drunken fistfights
no ivy covered angels smoking their cigarettes on balconies
the homeless will not bake under streetlamps, their ruddy pepper hands
roasting with hope
in Hell
there will be no negatives, or imaginary numbers
no declinations, implications, or conjugations
the languages will roll off of our tongues like
tiny little white mice, scrambling and scurrying
to the swiss heaven, faded stairways and tea kettles
brewing brains, chemicals and mysteries
corrugated corneas the Ides of Autumn we never knew existed
suffocate us, the nights are stuffy and cold, the leaves brisk and
crisp among the scattered sunrises we never see
missing the point we scream, tall and twisted
berber agony the floors wail, the paints melt and our hearts freeze
on Earth we summon elements at laundromats
aquamarine smoke and
fire

[goldenrod]

(Quote)

"the languages will roll off of our tongues like
tiny little white mice"

I see that you include yourself in this particular hell!

For some reason I have yet to fathom, I felt unease reading this poem. Perhaps, because I consider myself a prime candidate, as a future resident of some form of hell, and your description sounds more plausible than most...

goldenrod.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Among the several things I wonder about with respect to this and practically any of your poems is, how do you know when to stop?

And lord, lord! What do you do after you stop? Do you come back to earth again in some way or other? Make yourself a grilled-cheese sandwich with Dijon mustard? Step out on the balcony and blow kisses to the neighbourhood dogs? Send a psychic message to SP?

[paperleaves]

Dear goldenrod, thank you for your comment! I am nondualist, so this poem includes you and I, the sinners and saints, the rich and the poor, everyone in the world :)

dear Jer, as always, I love hearing from you. I actually didn't finish this one, something just told me to stop. :)
thank you for the comments!