The Seven Princes of Hell
Compared to men with itchy feet
I stop my labors, place my pickaxe down by
my own itchy feet, being damned for so long
brings boredom, to approach the group festering
with even more so ancient boredom
“Why are you here?” They laughed, pointing bubbly wart
fingers at my withered cheeks
sunk to bone, legs arm-thin, arms thinner, skin sheltering
ribs being pulled into canyons with each inhale
“Fear us and be gone! We know your every sin and bastardizing
secret. We can tear you to shreds as meat for our drink. Leave
us be!”
I stood still looking upon the grotesque
“Is there a God?” I questioned, acting curious
“NO!” they cried happily
“There is nothing to put faith in! Nothing to believe in!” They
began laughing again, pouring more whiskey
Something I haven’t tasted in hundreds of years, staring
with leviathan at their glasses brim
As they husked long jagged bellows of good
temperament, I thought for a moment
“Why should I fear you?” I asked “If there is nothing to believe in,
there is no hell.”
I walked straight up to The Seven Princes of Hell and said,
“Fear me, for I have logic and reason.” They, at that moment,
vanished.
Whistling, I sauntered towards the nearest bar and bought a drink
Photograph: Sam Russell
Jeremiah Walton is 18 and lives in New Hampshire where he manages Nostrovia! Poetry, Walking Is Still Honest Press, and is editor for Underground Books' The Kitchen Poet. Jeremiah is the author of Gatsby's Abandoned Children, To Your Health: Humanity's Diagnosis, and LSD Giggles.