To further the trend started by Cody (meaning, just him and me), here
is my alternative version of Hell as calibrated to sins against music.
Canto I
A
din wafted up through the first stairs of Hell,
A
sound from the darkened stairs, a voice
Announcing
my arrival to the land that fell,
Cher’s
life after love, Music’s choice.
My
head rolled back, a sound came forth
That
drowned out even Cher’s sin,
And
though my compass pointed due north,
The
cloudy air of my mind became thin.
Through
all the mist and fog, a face
With
eyes in terror and mouth stretched wide
Let
forth a scream that filled this space,
Seeming
a vaguely musical tide.
I
knew him at once to be sincere,
A
love of Music, deep inside,
Left
out in the cold by a healthy fear
Of
talent of any shape or size.
In
my heart I felt a pang of sadness
For
their souls in essence were basically pure,
Yet
to the pure of soul, they still remain less
Because
they lack a skill that’s sure.
Doomed
forever to scream without Song,
Their
punishment less, their fall not so long.
Canto
II
Back
down the stairs, dank with age,
A
rusted door announcing Circle Two,
I
entered and saw a man enraged
Who
wore a suit purple through and through.
In
the corner of the Technicolor room
Sat
a phonograph, ancient and solid
That
no soul could topple nor tip with a broom,
Broadcasting
its sin, clear and lucid,
Like
the room. The man danced
Without
reprieve, to and fro,
In
his dinosaur suit he endlessly pranced,
Seeming
joy his belied so.
This
master of the children’s show,
Should
he cease to move to his sinful tune,
To
his legs that dance below
Children’s
devilish teeth will attune
Until
those legs are naught but stumps;
Then
the process repeats as they grow back from bumps.
Canto
III
In
a daze I returned to those crumbling stairs
And
journeyed deeper into the earth;
Soon
came four doors, arranged in pairs,
The
choice was testing my worth.
I
chose the door to the farthest right;
The
door opened at the merest thought,
And
through the shine of a bright stage light
Came
a humming only bees could have wrought.
Shielding
my eyes from that blinding spot,
I
beheld a woman, her makeup obscene.
Ashlee
Simpson, success not hard fought,
Posed
by wires, her white face mean.
And
lo and behold, she tried to speak,
But
her mouth was stitched up tight,
The
voice in her throat finding no leak
And
humming, trapped in eternal fright.
They
all suffer so because they lip-synch,
Never
to speak again, I would think.
Canto
IV
I
retraced my steps to the next door,
My
shock slowly turning to grim satisfaction;
From
behind the door to Circle Four,
Came
the cry of wretching in action.
Once
through the portal, my eyes beheld
A
sight to shock my soul anew-
Spinning
disks like cuts of trees felled,
Men
strapped to each center with malevolent glue.
As
the turntables spun, one man cried out,
His
voice choked off by the lump in his throat,
“If
you ever spin any disks, have no doubt,
Sir,
your music choice counts note for note!”
At
this last phrase his eyes widened in fright,
That
lump in his throat became all the more clearly
The
waste from his bowels, nausea’s blight,
And
he spewed, eyes screwing shut grimly.
All
down the line nausea took its toll,
Each
DJ vomiting through clenched tooth.
Satisfaction
returned me in the doorway’s knoll,
For
their choice of music had been so uncouth.
As
their spinning continued, I closed the door,
Angry
at sin and wanting to see more.
Canto
V
Through
the third door a humid air blew,
A
hellishly comfortable sauna within,
And
stretched despondently in this perspiring stew
Were
familiar shades of celebrity sin.
On
one bench sat Britney, on another, Madonna;
All
the divas drained of their cores,
Their
hair like string and resting on a
Pair
of shoulders like jagged coastal shores.
Clothed
in burlap, makeup gone awry,
They
retained only shells of their former selves;
Princesses
once of a world all a lie,
I
felt no pity as they sulked on their shelves.
As
they turn from Music, so their true loves turn from them.
Now
without song or material world pursued,
Accompanied
by the silent anthem
Of
those whose lives the material world construes
As
truth when truth lies in the Song
They
don’t sing but drag along.
Canto
VI
Disturbed
yet content, I turned away
Toward
Circle Six in the middle of Hell
When
a sound like woodpeckers gone astray
Accosted
my ears. Through the door I fell
And
witnessed a thing so strange, so weird,
Whereby
crooked old men ran ‘round and ‘round,
Pursued
by batons that tore at their beards,
That
beat them and forced that pecking sound.
As
wood hit bone, the men did strive
To
escape, but they could not see,
For
thanks to their stubborn wills while alive,
They
were beat by their own music legacy.
As
under their scorn young musicians did toil,
So
their wrath they suffer blow by blow.
As
from bitter tongue-lashings their students recoiled,
So
their bitter souls run from true lashings below.
For
killing their students’ love of a good tune
These
teachers will suffer forever, none too soon.
Canto
VII
I
descended more stairs, crumbling and worn,
When
I came across a door so massive,
Concealing
the traitors to the art form;
Knowing
where I was, I turned to passive.
Why,
you ask, was I so calm?
Because
to their sins my mind was tied,
These
traitors whom Satan palmed
With
ease, on whose sins he relied.
Once
inside the oaken door,
I
beheld a massive, lazy bear,
Consuming
all he could and more
While
holding Yanni by the hair.
Indifferent
to his musical trash,
The
beast consumed with one huge paw;
With
the other holding Yanni’s hair, he lashed
The
wretched man from see to saw.
While
Yanni made music so inane,
On
earth the market bought and bought
His
wretched filth. So now in the same,
This
greedy bear destroys what he sought.
As
Yanni flopped like a small rag doll,
I
turned from the scene and walked a hall.
Canto
VIII
The
hall became a simple path
Outlined
in tape colored red,
And
into a room made by Music’s wrath
I
dared to lift a foot and tread
Into
a room of infinite size,
A
labyrinth, twisted, gnarled, and turned,
And
out of the dark, a man none too wise
Stepped
over the line of red tape and was burned.
While
flaming and screaming, the shade gained his wits
Just
in time to black out where my feet were to tread.
As
he lay there twitching, convulsing in fits,
A
vision of record labels danced in his head.
As
I looked all around me, my soul became clear,
And
I sensed the true scope of this cavernous place.
Everywhere
red tape ran but not drawing near
The
golden center of this wicked space.
I
walked by a group, and these bureaucrats sighed,
“We
never draw closer to that stack of gold
That
lies at the center. This red tape has lied,
For
we’ve passed this spot thrice while our corpses grow old.”
They
struggled on, hungry and thirsty, while I
Caught
a glimpse of the gold of which they spoke,
A
tower far off under brown earthen sky;
To
this place’s true nature my soul awoke.
As
in life, when red tape left music out to dry,
These
bureaucrats burn dry if they cross their own line;
As
confusion reigns and no one asks why,
So
they walk ‘round forever, paths twisting like vine.
But
I, being human, crossed over their tape
Where
that tower of gold jutted out like a cape.
Canto
IX
As
I drew near the gold, a scream caught my ear
That
seeped through the ground laying under my feet;
Lying
sideways, I quickly corralled my fear
As
I found a rectangular hole small and neat
At
the foot of the gold. One by one
The
bricks dropped on through to Circle Nine,
That
deepest of pits sweating under the sun,
To
boil away and keep Satan fine.
My
body grew heavy as I clambered on down,
A
stench like no other invaded my eyes;
What
I saw then I can’t say, by Satan’s crown,
Any
more than I can describe his lies.
This
feared hole under Hell was naught but a vat
Where
dropping bricks of gold were melted;
In
his alter of moneys, countless shades sat
While
their skin by gold liquid was smelted.
I’d
never seen such looks on faces
As
their souls were boiled in gold;
As
the sold out to money in earthly spaces,
So
it melts them for infinity, when they never grow old.
Above
the scalding bubbles and unearthly screams,
A
new sound, pure evil, arose,
The
Evil One exacting dues, it seems,
One
musical note that all the world knows.
There
he comes! Striding ‘cross molten ore,
Saxophone
stuck in his vile mouth,
The
Destroyer of Worlds has come to the fore
As
north collapses into south.
One
note he holds, his symbol of fame;
In
life, his talent we could not measure.
He
turned away from the Way, lacking in shame,
‘Till
it was only wealth that he treasured.
I
hid my face as Kenny G screamed by,
Holding
one note past the end of time.
But
his evil engulfed me under earthen sky
As
the world of the capitalists claimed part of mine.
At
the moment of truth, by Music’s good grace
A
quick zephyr swept me from the unspeakable place,
So
that the world might know whom Satan befell
And
learn from my journey through the gradations of Hell.