kel–
Hell is anywhere you can’t see, long journey
into the hull of your ship, each swift doing
covers up, chairs re-upholstered by
a passing flock of sheep. A page changes,
agitated by our motion. The world loves to
behold a celebrity, but then it’s swifter even than you.
There’s no going home now, poor William.
The other tries its best to speak in that
long hall, Valhalla, on the other side of things.
Or am I the other?
Us, all along, driving her, Hagar
from every chair, holding her back from me
with the oafish advances, movements
that breed one’s own discomfort? The other,
the self, driving “self driven” they say
through the long halls of hell. Covered.
Occult. Our noble science to run the ship ashore.
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