Hell is White

No neo-golden disguises here, you know this much. You’re silverish. If these were such sweet crimes, nobody could see it entirely. Creeping centrifuge robbery, ‘round every corner here or there. Sticks bundled with twine inside lockets intended to keep even the toughest men held tight. You check in, providing solitude, peddling course veins grown-old of life here. Under the blundering killer which gives so much mystery. I’m sure you’re interested now. Come to me. It’s so lonely behind this guise. Just rest, for we will weep when we see hell is white.


Do you feel good coddling the iron links in these bone-filled winds? Cut, kindle. Three keys to your thirst with the pints on me. Fill the bellies of the tethered men in time. One second ripped in two. Enter dredge-knuckle insertion. Money, women. Writhing bugs swishing ninety-five nights, which will sell you nonetheless. Fill the prisons with you, boy. You’ll live moving in my chest. Our skeletons were cold indoors, which felt to us like summer. With but one word to kneel upon your flesh. We wept too, when we found hell was white.


Whenever the reckless being, the demon, which, white-hell-bent, comes forth to me in strides, it is for no greedy effect–just simple kindness. Epidemics, drought, the hungry wretch in the concrete. Southern flies gone now. Pestilence to no end. The end times. It’s the kind of spirit you’ve come to love, like one thought you could never be without. Does it bring you to your knees? The terrible sickness? Every emotion you never knew you could feel? Three o’clock rolls by, and I wonder if you know hell is white.


The devil spoke you must be gone. The guiltless terror where your nights seek shelter must be gone. The only sight you’ll see is ego. Test meddling swine out of hell, for we know best. We’re guests of honor. Scientists, even. Could our void be filled only with light? Light which shines from your eyes to the noose, but one mustn’t be so keen. For the killmonger sees the unconscious. Look over there, see the guillotine, beside the window. Bricks. More bricks. Truly, this is in spite. This is full. This is not! This is not! This is wrong, I tell you! Hell must not be white!

When they find you knew of these terrible things. God, no. The eyes of storms give you these punishments, only to firm them shut. The winds be gone, the trees show no bend. Only you, the trees, the time. The time here which goes. Hell sometimes sees the future in you, but not this time. Morning winds flutter by. Hello. Three o’clock, hello. Wish for the summer. Wish for the fire. Wish for the sun, the short dresses, the time once more. But don’t wish for me. For now you know the one gossip I’ve known since the beginning. Hell is white. It is white.


James Wolff, a third-year psychology major, likes to  write poetry, hike, and play acoustic guitar.
James Wolff, a third-year psychology major, likes to write poetry, hike, and play acoustic guitar.