Friday, March 29, 2019

The Obscene Comedy*

The stench stung his nostrils, seared
his lungs. Flames tongued up his
legs to scorch his testicles and
abdomen. His back recoiled, then
bent to the slash of the whip
wielded by the hulking, slobbering
demon. He stumbled to his knees,
his head cowered, tears streaming
down his face. “Why am I here?”
he whimpered.

“To make Americal great again!"
snarled the  demon'

He felt a weight on his
legs, and looked down to
see a dark soul clinging
to his torso, grasping toward
his face. “Who is this
parasite?” he asked.

“Mike Pense.” responded
the demon.

He stared into a molten
pool at his reflection, but
did not recognize his own
face. Instead, he gazed into
a head split wide open,
with spiders roiling from
the gaping wound. “What is
this horrid image?” he inquired.

told the demon.

He raised his head and glanced
to the right, “Who is that poor
soul with serpents gorging his
mouth, his words tangled, distorted?”

“Bill Barr”
replied the demon.

He turned to the left and
queried, “Who is that, her
tongue swollen out from her
mouth, covered with sores
and maggots?”

 the demon answered.

Frailly, he pointed across a
stream of boiling oil. “Who
is that with burning coals
protruding from his
eyes, his vision darkened
and obscure?”

said the demon

His eyes focused on another
soul with white hot pokers
thrusting themselves into his
ears, blocking all reason and
knowledge. “Who is..?”

“Paul Manafort”
the demon interrupted.

Then he wondered,
“What about my friend Vladimir?”

“There is a special place here for him,”
smiled to demon.

He lifted his body, twisted and stared
above. Millions of transparent
souls swirled, tossed about by
flames and clouds of smoke.

The demon faced up, “The 30 odd
 percent of Americans who followed you here.”

It seemed like he trudged for
hours, days, months. He could not
determine time. His pathway
intersected all the tragic souls
who shared his life and now his

“Art of the deal,”
whispered the demon.

He slogged, ankle deep,
in the now smoldering
molted gold that had paved
his way here, each agonizing
step punctuated by the demon’s
whip. “How long must I endure
this?” he implored.

“Until Mar-A-Lago freezes over,” the demon
explained. “Thank God
for global warming."

Forrest C. Greenslade, PhD

*Many thanks to Dante, whose Inferno inspired me to write this fake poetry.
Special thanks to The Donald for nothing.

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