LUDIC LOG

Thanks to Kuda & Christian for the inspirato.

Who could, even in the simplest kind of prose,
describe in full this scene of blood and wounds?
Bad people go to hell?  I don't think so.

Certainly any tongue would have to fail, 
as e'er does memory and vocabulary.
But listen:  action talks and bullshit walks.

Now here's the shot:  if I could group the dead
Who once upon the streets of Chicago
Did grieve their life's blood pissed on by some cop

And spilled again in those long years of war
With the United States of Kiss My Ass
(as Livy's history tells, that does not err)

And pile them with the man whose house burned down
When he stood up agaist the great Capone
Who on his ashes pissed that fateful day

And those who Hoffa crossed in greed's despair 
Like those from Detroit's factories and homes
Who ended with their arms shoved up their ass --

If all these maimed with limbs lopped off or pierced
Were brought together, still it would be naught
Compared with Bolgia 9.  You think I'm wrong?

No wine cask with its stave or cant-bar sprung 
Was ever split the way I saw someone
Whose lungs were pissed on through a caved chest.

Between his legs his guts spilled out, his heart
And other vital parts like brains and eyes
Were dripping out his motherfuckin' ass.

While I stood staring at his misery, 
He looked at me and shrieked in mad disdain
"You're a fuckin' secretary!  Fuck you!"

See how Mahomet is deformed and torn!  
In front of me, and weeping, Ali walks, 
So hot, he begs a streetside cop to shoot.

The souls that you see passing in this ditch 
Sowed scandal, strife and schism in their lives
Or else they called some broad three times a week.

A devil stands back there and trims them all
In most cruel ways, with pitchfork, blade and spoon:
He feeds them dogshit, says it's Cream of Wheat.

Each time we make one round of this sad road, 
The wounds have sealed up but the pain goes on; 
Their guts on fire, but who'll piss up their ass?

But who is that there, gawking from the bridge, 
So cool that when he sleeps the sheep count him, 
Avoiding punishment of hell like he's a prince?

"Death does not have him yet," my master spake;
 He ain't condemned.  He thinks this is abuse?
 You asked, so I tell:  Fuck you, that's his name!

"I, who am dead, must lead him through this Hell
 Like I'm some fuckin' caveman or something,
 From point to point and so on down the line."

More than a hundred in that ditch stopped short
To look at me when they had heard his words, 
Not knowing that the world is naught but lies.

"And you, who will behold the sun perhaps
 Quite soon, tell Joe Mantegna that unless
 He wants to follow me here quick, he'd best

"Please cut out all that car commercial shit
 And read the fuckin' lines just like he's told
 Or else he'll wind up back in summer stock."

With heel to toe, enacting business right, 
Mahomet spake these words real close and tight
And then stepped back, stage left, and moved away.

Another, with his throat slit, and his nose
Torn off and stretched up to above his brows
Like some fuckin' Indian rubber man

Who stopped with all the rest to stare in shock
Stepped out, his neck a wounded reddened sore, 
And said "Fuck the Machine, Fuck the Machine!

"O you, whom guilt does not fully condemn, 
 Whom I have seen in Chicago up there, 
 I have no lies, but only fiction's gift:

"Recall to mind my buddy Jerry Graff, 
 Who's wont to confuse business with pleasure, 
 And don't know enough to keep them apart.

"If you return to Chi-town's blighted shores, 
 please tell him that you can't trust nobody:
 Loyalty is fine, but this is business.

"Our foresight here is no deception:
 He's gonna bring a knife to a gunfight
 And wind up deader than the shit of dogs.

"So great a crime that burg will never see;
 And I should not on that bad pony bet,
 But friendship is quite a wonderful thing.

"That liar, who, since human, dreams of cash -- 
 He thinks he knows, but trust me, he don't know.  
 I go out there each day, there's nothing there.

"See to it that he does not waste his breath
 On bullshit fairy tales and family crap.
 What one man can do, another man can do."

And I to him:  "If you will have me bring
Your message to this asshole Graff on Earth,
Then show me some guy with this future sight."

At once he grabbed the jaws of some poor shade
Standing nearby, and pried open his yap, 
And said "Here is the guy, a fuckin' mute.

"This guy, a panicked homosexual,
 Helped seal the fate of Lord Daley the First
 By saying 'He messed with you, you mess with him.'"

How helpless and bewildered he appeared, 
His tongue hacked off as far down as the throat,
This stinkin' Irish shitbag once so bold!

And one who had both arms but had no hands,
Raising his bloody stumps like some proud pug,
Did holler like my bitch ex-wife in heat:

"No doubt you recall me, once labor's friend, 
 I wouldn't share my hack with any scab
 And said 'I'm busy, you can go get laid."

"You cannot bluff unless attention's paid," 
I said; "you're in hell -- organize the dead!"
He turned and went off, like one mad from pain.

But I remained to watch the multitude
And saw a thing I hesitate to tell:
But when it's cooking, man, it's cooking, dig?

I know I saw it, for my conscience true
Reminds me of the silence at that sight, 
Like ants on cotton not thinking to pee.

I saw it, sure, and seem to see it still:
A body, yeah, without no fuckin' head
Once collegiate polite, fucked like a hat.

He held his severed head up by its hair
Swinging in one hand like a pointing gun; 
It said:  "You fuckin' faggots!  A-B-C!"

My master said, "This shade is one betrayed
 By greed's ambition.  Talk you not to him,
 that asshole, or you're a fucking asshole."

And when he had arrived beneath our bridge, 
He raised the arm that held his head up high
And spoke loud, to no one's pleasant surprise.

It said, "Coffee's for closers!  Got that, pal?
 Your name is wanting, you can't play the game;
 The dotted line is nameless evermore!

"I am the one called Blake, and my bleak lines
 Were written in life's script before it filmed; 
 And so my fate, but I don't give a shit.

"I drove a Beemer worth some eighty grand
 Straight into Hell!" he ranted; but I turned, 
And, looking to my master, heard these words:

"Don't ever lose your sense of humor, Dan."