The second-hardest thing I have to do is not be longing's slave.
Hell is that. Hell is that, others, having a job, and not having a
job. Hell is thinking continually of those who were truly great.
The kind of music I want to continue hearing after I am dead is
the kind that makes me think I will be capable of hearing it then.
There is music in Hell. Wind of desolation! It blows past the egg-
eyed statues. The canopic jars are full of secrets.
The wind blows through me. I open my mouth to speak.
I recite the list of people I have copulated with. It does not take long.
I say the names of my imaginary children. I call out four-syllable
words beginning with B. This is how I stay alive.
Beelzebub. Brachiosaur. Bubble-headed. I don't know how I stay alive.
What I do know is that there is a light, far above us, that goes out
when we die,
and that in Hell there is a gray tulip that grows without any sun.
It reminds me of everything I failed at,
and I water it carefully. It is all I have to remind me of you.
Also this poem (originally published in Image) by Garret Keizer was great, though admittedly I did not get it all.
Hell and Love
Hell is always grander to paint
Than the bliss of a resurrected saint;
More fun to show the lecher's doom
Tits and ass in the flicking gloom.
Yet love inspires more than hate,
A head caressed than on a plate,
And even should his colors wash,
I'd put Chagall in front of Bosch.
The passion is a painter's dream,
With hell and love a single theme --
The human body stripped to show
A death both merciful and slow.