Holy Hell

All he had the energy to do today
was strip down bare and walk into the salty bay.

Last night he’d tied one on; he didn’t feel so well.
In fact he’d have described his head as holy hell

if anyone had asked him.
But now he thought he’d bask in

warm and pleasant lapping water: he would chill.
Maybe soon he wouldn’t feel so ill.

He searched the sky above him: it was pink.
He wondered if that was a symptom of the drink.

The horizon never seemed so flat.
He’d never really noticed that.

Didn’t everybody say the world was spherical?
Maybe everything turned out to be a miracle.

But wait, if that was so, then nothing was.
His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with fuzz.

He hadn’t noticed people gather on the shore.
They looked at him as if they wanted more.

While he stood upright thinking he had capsized,
someone cried out: “A prophet has been baptized!”

Damn, but he was parched – had trouble swallowing.
He waded back, and found he had a following.




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