Well, for those who remember, I wrote a poem called Dante's Gate (here in the Snot, 7/20/95), about a person who wanted to experience for himself Dante's hellacious journey. Having done so, he's given a gift from his guide, though we never find out what it is. Well, here's the sequel to the poem, which will also give you that answer...


It's been six lonely months
Since your visit to hell.
What a burdensome trip,
And with no one to tell.
No, you can't share the whispers,
The howlings of pain
That reverb in your head,
Or they'd think you insane.
So you keep them shut in,
While these feelings and visions
Turn your stomach to acid
And your life to a prison.
For you can not keep doing
All those things you once did,
Knowing now what awaits for you
Once you are dead.

Still, you clutch in your hand
The gift madness had given you.
The reminder, momento,
That has not forgiven you.
It won't let you drop it,
Nor put its weight down.
It remains in your grasp,
Feeling safe, feeling sound.
As it lies there, its metal
Pressed tight to your palm
You can thrive from its power
And quench your alarm.
It will teach you avoidance
From Hell's flaming pit
From the poisons that cover
As milk from a tit
Which rot out your soul
As you swallow your bit.

You've lost your possessions,
Your house and your car.
And you just wander aimlessly,
Travelling far
From the place where you witnessed
The nightmare called Hell
And the souls that reside there
Just burning until
They've paid back with their pain
All the evil they've done.
They've repayed from their hide
All their sins, every one.

Your hair's grown unkempt,
Your appearance for naught.
You don't bathe, you don't shower,
Your skin's turned to rot.
But you just can not spend the time
Needed to blend
With society's rules
So you're off, once again.
What's the point of a haircut,
A shower, a shave,
If it means, when you die,
You become Satan's slave?
That you're chained to a rock
While the ravens pick out
All your teeth and your eyes
With their hard, beaky mouths.
If you're stripped to the muscle
While the Bee wears your hide
And you show all the world
How there's never no pride
While your innards and veins
Are exposed to outside.

No time for your vanity,
Worry instead
Of what weighs down your soul
When from you it has bled.
When it seeps out your pores.
When you lie there, stone dead.

So again your attention
Roams down to your fingers
As they feel the hard lump
While your memory lingers
On pain and on passion,
On the gift the guide gave you
When he handed to you
The one thing that could save you.
You remember your lesson,
Remember it well.
For you hold in your hand
A small portion of Hell.

© 2000, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com