Heart of Darkness

[Erthona]

i

Like the stressed metal in a fine Japanese sword,
my guts feels hammered and folded
the requisite two hundred times.
After each series of metallic lashes,
I am lifted off this anvil of retching nausea
and exposed to the chill of the world,
nerve naked, shivering uncontrollably.
At the center of my being a concentrated
cancerous mass of fear coalesces:
an emotional black hole, cork screwing, tightening
inexorably downward toward greater darkness.
For reasons unknown to my impotent conscious mind
I am unable to stop committing Hara-Kiri of the psyche,
my will is no longer under my control.
Using this sword, honed on the whet-stone of my despair,
I slowly saw through my tough sinew covered innards:
bisecting my increasingly enervated psyche.
I feel the need to disgorge whatever is coiled there
but not even this simple act of relief is allowed.
In a battle royal, helplessness, hopelessness,
and loneliness, fight to see who will rule my emotions
for the next micro-second ticking off this
everlastingly slow clock of eternal torture.

ii

“If this is Hell,” I think,
“ I will sign up with whichever
religion can keep me out of it.”
“That,” I think, “is a small price to pay.”
As the Christ did on the cross I cry out.
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
I am no Christ, but my answer is the same:
only the echoing silence of no-reply!
God, if there ever was one has abandoned me
to the consequences of my selfish behavior.

iii

Milton was a fool: rule over this?
It takes all of ones mental strength,
to even begin to separate Hell from the self.
What is this talk about a devil . . . Satan,
the ruler of Hell, the great torturer?
It is doubtful in the extreme that he
could torment me more than I do!
He might enjoy my misfortune,
but cause it?
I have only myself to blame.
Through my own acts of sin,
I have willingly removed myself
from the presence of God.
Yet… I retain the faintest hope.
Yes, I see it now. Satan and I
are the same in this respect.
God allows us the smallest hope,
for in existence is always that seed.
That seed of hope that urges us to continue to struggle.
It is why Satan continued to fight
although he had no hope of winning.
As long as he had existence, he had hope.
With each breathe…even as each breathe
sends searing bullets of pain strafing
through my torso, cooking the torn meat
it penetrates, despite this pain,
in fact because of this pain,
I know, I am aware. I exist!
Must there still not be the spark of life within?
Can I build that tiny oscillating glow,
into a bon-fire to conquer this darkness of the soul?
If the good on earth be the slightest reflection of heaven
then this must be only the slightest shadow of Hell,
for I know I am not yet fully in hell.
Milton then was twice the fool.
No Being of any awareness would choose
even this mild reflection of Hell
above the faintest echo of Heaven.
Only owing to the fact that we are never without
the presence of God could one believe such an inanity.

iv

Comparing the meanest, the lowliest drudge in heaven,
to the highest prince in hell, is to liken the brightest star
to a spent piece of pitch-bleached coal.
No, if there is a Satan,
then he is not the sly deceiver,
the trickster, the haughty
or proud prince of demons,
but the greatest of all buffoons.
If you wish to scare me, do not trot out
this worthless gomeral goat.
If you wish to convince me
of the rightness of your dogma
come instead to where I am at this instance:
feel what I feel, see what I see,
experience this that I experience.
The paradox of Hell: to be only for one second,
completely separated from God,
any person would commit
the worst sin to come back into his presence.

v

Hot molten lead of despair pours
into the mold of Hell that is my gut.
I stare into the mirror of my soul,
a skull of deepest horror looks back.
Without a friend, or even an enemy
to hold my hand, or offer the barest idea of comfort.
It would be worth the most terrible torture on earth
just to have the presence of another here with me:
but each world of Hell is individually tailored,
this rite of passage has berth for only one.
In the end, that is what makes it Hell.
Not just separation from God,
but the separation from any other.

vi

Tell me then, you the answers.
What will you do when all prayers fail,
falling still-born to the ground?
Can you find communion when
all of your rituals ring hollow,
and are exposed as pointless façades?
Can you find meaning when all
the words of scripture blur,
and are rejected as tainted and impure profanities?
Tell me then poor wretch, self-deceiving fool,
wastrel of time:
when no question is asked,
tell me you have the answer.
When you feel only despair,
tell me your faith is strong.
When the smallest sound,
sight, or utterance of scripture
makes you heave as though the lining
of your stomach is anathemic poison:
When everything that you have ever believed
is reveled to be shallow and hollow,
and you find yourself reveled as
the most empty and superficial all:
tell me then of your belief!
When the smallest sign of life within yourself
is pain more encompassing and dejecting
than you could ever before have comprehended,
and the only thing you can think to do is to ask why?
Why this pain? What must I do to make it stop?
And the only answer is laughter,
laughter at your confusion,
laughter at your pain.
and they will laugh at the agony
that crushes your soul,
as they bring forth the ones you love most,
and work all manner of evil upon them,
while you stand impotent and helpless.
Tell me then of your acceptance.
When you have stood where I stand,
endured what I endure,
when you have looked into
the eyes of Satan and know him,
in your deepest shame, to be yourself!
When you have done these things,
then will I listen to your proselytizing.
Until then, be silent!
You have not earned the right
to inflict upon me your childish syllogisms,
and you fairy tale religion.
You are so self-deluded you can no longer
distinguish what is false from what is true.
I would rather converse with the great deceiver,
that such an insipid fool as you,
even from him I more chance of the truth.
The great deception is he has no need to deceive.

vii
Mistake this not my friend, and be assured,
you are my friend; I beg your forgiveness,
for I speak through my pain,
and this pain has ripped from me all gentle sensibilities.
Although I know I speak the truth,
I know I speak the truth raw.
Truth devoid of equivocations,
without regard for the inherent foibles of human beings.
It would be my wish to speak
with more care and subtly
as has been my wont in times past.
I am sorry, for I am without
those oratory balms which I once possed.

You are my friend, I would that I be yours,
but know this for the truth, for in hell
all lies are stripped away.
If you want truth, come to hell,
it is poured out by the bucketfuls,
a sharp stinging brew of the most potent acid:
it never ceases to burn.
What did you believe they
punished one with, lies?
No my friend, for self-deceivers such as we,
there is no more hurtful punishment than the truth.
So truth you may believe I speak,
for they will allow me nothing less,
for anything less would ease my pain.
So even were you my worst enemy,
I would do no less than give you the truth.

Here in the solitude of hell,
the lowest, ugliest, meanest human on earth,
who could break this Godless solitude
with his presence,
would be the greatest lover
anyone here could know.
For yet while he lives,
any human carries with him
some part of God, and though
hidden on earth, it would burst forth
like a supernova here in the blackness of Hell.
But I wonder off, and I still have that which
I am compelled to tell you,
even though you will hate me
and cast aside my words,
I have been tasked with this message.


So my friend, while I am yet able,
I will tell you this which you have need to hear.

--time is fleeing from you–
can you feel it sliding away?
Do you feel the anticipation?
Anticipating…what? Death?
Worse…much worse.
Rest assured the day is coming,
it is a day already known,
and it is coming nearer each clock tick,
with each pleasure spent,
each race won,
each meal eaten,
each joy overlooked,
every pain rejected.
Each pulse of blood through
the miles of your veins
brings the shadow of eternal night closer.
There will come a time
when the ticking clock stops.
-For You,
as it is now for me.
Then you will find no act pleasurable:
all sights will be ugly and grotesque:
all you taste will be bitter.
You will taste only the
ashes of the dead upon your tongue.
No matter where you seek, no joy will you find.
Every pain that has ever been,
shall return upon a thrice barbed arrow.

That day has yet to come,
you are still safe,
you yet have time,
but know this, let there be no doubt,
that day comes…
-for you,
-come it does, and come it will.

On that day, you will look around, astonished.
Everything will appear the same,
but it will not be the same.
It is then that you will begin to realize that Hell
is not some place…
out there.

©2012 –Erthona