HEAVEN
just inside the gates of Heaven
he met a woman
and she was beautiful
the next one
more beautiful still
said she wanted him
that it was okay
she had her way
and he his
he wondered what he'd done
to deserve all this
he thought of his life
he thought of his wife
each new woman wanted him more
made love to him
like a million dollar whore
room service brought him
cocaine
and the next day
the same thing happened
again
and again
and again
He had indeed died
and gone to Heaven
he had his every desire
eventually he felt tired
needed somewhere
to lay his head
and rest
but there was no such place
in Heaven.
He thought it strange
all his days on Earth
had been blessed with haven
and shelter
just then
he felt the temperature
begin to rise
begin to swelter
In a list
Comments
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its like an oxymoron! =D
that is one freakin awesometastic poem right there!!!
i LOVED it!!! i have officailly decided that i really like your poems! Good job and *high five* to you!!! XD
~Anna
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Hey, John. Can't shake loose of that Catholic guilt, eh? I detect a little Ochsian echo in the tone of this one as well.
Heaven and hell, I think, are some of the toughest subjects to hit without sounding preachy/new-agey/sappy/etc. But I agree with others, that you manage to keep the tone matter-of-fact, and certain word choices, for me, gave this poem validity-- especially that final line, "swelter." That's just a great word to describe the hell-bound. I also love the quiet realization that what the narrator thinks is heaven is actually hell-- when he realizes that there's no place to rest. Nice work in subtlety there.
The idea of a whores-and-cocaine heaven felt like a rap song-- it's funny, I've had your prayer poem on my mind, the one where you remarked in jest that your inner-voices are black. I think you may be right.
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hey w
i had a feeling you where going to take us there...to hell that is, i was thinking could you do the inverse of this where we start out in what seems like hell but turns out its heaven?
dave -
A finely wrought tongue-in-cheek about a hell-in-heaven, John - this one should be read to all suicidal terrorists, drastically scaling down their promised rewards to the "swelter" of unrelieved sexual performance - "He thought it strange" indeed, including that slightly guilty "he thought of his wife..."
What I most like in it is the absence of angels, God and organ music (the instrument, not the bodily!) in your felt heaven, nice touch with all those sexual demands going on. You are a divil of a conjurer, W!
Just a thought: I wonder if "He had his every desire" is needed; maybe unnecessarily redundant of the whole first half of the poem, but that's a minor quibble at best.
My favorite word in the whole thing? that perfectly chosen "haven" - just the right frustrated balance with "heaven."
Fine read as always!
Lad. Rewarded 8
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