Performance Poetry: 1347 & All That

The year, as you know, is thirteen forty seven.

Our scene is laid in a Christian Heaven.

(A reception room, actually — a neutral place —
For here does Jesus Satan face
Before the golden eyes of God.)

Like naughty boys the two are standing:
Jesus, Satan — good and evil notwithstanding,
Both are summoned to the headmaster’s study
And things aren’t looking particularly funny.

God makes them wait before he speaks

And, when He does — well, when he does, the Universe … creaks.

“Now listen, you mugs, we’ve got a situation:
I am well vexed up with my terrestrial creation!
I made you up as top boys to keep my business sweet
To balance things on Earth down there, to keep things level, keep things neat!
There’s too many people and not enough fodder —

It’s as simple as that and it’s causing me bother!

There’s too many folk, not enough food:
We need a change.  Things is critical.
Sort it out, or I will get political.

One of you I’ll put in charge,

And the other can … do whatever.
So think of something sharpish large
And think of something clever!
Any ideas?  You pair of chiefs!  Jesus, you first, but keep it brief.”

“Well dad,” says Jesus, “I think we should build some more beaches.
I’ve been spending some time in Perth, and, if the problem is people – well the beaches there are huge, ‘specially down Fremantle way.  So plenty of room for everybody, it’s hardly like there’s anyone there at all.   As for grub, well my lot usually have a barby on the go, all-comers welcome, we’re a friendly bunch, you know, great chicks, good vibe, lots of love.  Heavenly vibe really, I mean, I was planning a full-on Second Coming, but I thought, well this is Heaven on Earth already!  (Which I thought was pretty clever).   So yeah, beaches, and love, but mostly more beaches.”

“Jesus Christ,” Says God.  “Is that the best you’ve got?

Beaches?  Barbeques?  And as for Love … I think not.

Love is fine, but it leads to sex
Which leads to people, which is why I’m vexed!”

“My Lord, may I speak?”  Says Satan, all posh,
And Jesus is instantly under the cosh.

Satan’s been talking to Shakespeare, see,

(Even though he’s yet to be born)
And he’s been teaching “Fakespeare”
From eager dusk till dreary dawn.

Satan’s got some verbal hardstyle,
Sophisticate, no-smile, nuclear freestyle to lay down
And he’s about to press the button.

“Satan, show me a deal,” says God,
“But whatever you do, keep it real.”

“My Lord,” says Satan, “I sincerely feel
That circumstances do dictate —
Before, indeed it is too —

WAIT!

Satan sees a serving girl who’s stood there with some drinks;
She’s lovely-looking, really cooking — “but not for long, my love,” he thinks.

“Guns will I invent, my Lord, with bullets,
Rockets ancient Asians never dreamt to fire,

And weapons, fresh, of mass Destruction
To fright the timid Moon with Blast of War,
To bully-blush the sky with crimson Clouds of Death,
To blind the bright-eyed Stars with itching Pitch of toxic Hell;
But now, my Lord, to “keep things real” — a Plague!
A good old-fashioned, tried-and-tested Plague
I will (anew) review, refine, improve.”

(Satan now addresses serving girl ie. a member of audience)

“Thou, if thou hast wronged, then quake, thou, shake,
For I am Plague.  Black, slow-black, Death am I.

Upon the teeming backs of Rats I ride,
Whose coats do swell with Seas of Hades’ Fleas
That jump for joyous Infestation,
Whose maws are moist with pestilent’ial Slime,

Whose teeth are cut with bones of butchered men,
Whose breaths great Kings and Continents consume;

Triumphant through the sewered World we’ll swarm,
And stamp the Hope of husked Humanity
That God is just with Arguments “unfair”!

Abandon Hope!  Abandon Vanity! 
For what is Death if not the end of Care?

Now show’st thou Aspect, Form and Flow divine:
Thy parts in proper places set, thy motion true;
Thy features are not fixed, so love them not!
Soft as Stygian Sludge thy Face must fold
As Sores, Cysts, Pustules ooze, o’er-run,
Dissolving all thy Beauty as ‘twere Snow
Upon the hot and acid Eaves of Hell;
Eyeless thou’lt be, infect, a monstrous, scuttl’ing Mute
That none may look upon without Disgust:

Upon themselves, like claws, thy hands and feet shall turn
And with’em wilt thou wish to wrack thy Heart
And wrench it from thee when this Afflict’ion
Strikes, bites, and Torment tracks thine ev’ry vein;
Like spitted snakes thy guts shall split and thrash,
Thy tongue in two shall tear, thy gums to mash,
Thy lungs shall burst, thy spine shall snap, thine eyes
(Thine eyes so blue the endless sky would give
Its all for but for a beggared blim of blue so true) with black, with owl-black,
foul-black Bile shall brim, and then my Spiders,

Skittr’ing so, shall stitch thy lids together
And tomb thy sight and soul - forever bound
To me, my pretty Queen, to suffer too in Hell!”

“Bloody Hell!”  Says God.  “You’re hired!

“Jesus son, guess what, you’re fired!
Satan, you were smoking!
That was theatrical!
Fanatical!
When I said ‘for real’ I wasn’t joking – make it happen!
Apocalypse!  Now!
Horsemen, Demons – donkeys, whatever!
Wipe’em out, that’s serious clever!”

“Do we really have to kill them all?” says Jesus, feeling low.

“Can’t we simply leave a few and, well, relax, see how we go?
All seems pretty extreme to me.  Can’t we just sunbathe them to death?”

“I like it son, I like it, nice!
Turn up the sun, melt the ice!
But leave’s that till later on
And see if this here plague goes wrong.

Satan, go and make it so!

Son (ie Jesus), you’ve blown it, as you well know.
You’ll have your Second Coming, but you’ll have to wait a bit.

So go back to your beaches – and come back with some grit!”

So that’s what happened, all of it real.
Too many people, that was the deal.

And they’re still watching, up in the sky.
Satan probably fretting, Jesus probably high.

If had the choice – I mean, which one?
I’d stick with Jesus and lie in the sun!