Thursday, November 04, 2004

Mwangaguhunga's Inferno

"A national exit poll of 13,531 voters found 22 percent cited moral values as the 'most important issue.'" Washington Times.

Midway through Page Six,
I found myself lost in a popcultural K-hole, woozy and dazed,
For I had strayed from the straight pathway unto this tangled, snarky maze.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered the fray,
So full was I of Cutty Sark at the moment,
All was dark for I had abandoned the true way.

While I was rushing downward to the lowland,
Before mine eyes did an edifice present itself,
I spied the entrance and walked inside

Canto I: The Racists

The Corsair entered the structure, which, boldly lettered 'Hotel Hell,'
Which looked like something spooky out of Milton,
Opening the door to room 666,
I spied, in distress, one Paris Hilton.

"Stupid N**ger," Paris shouted, flailing arms and legs about,
As gleeful Bloods and Crips burnt her thighs with joints of pot,
And everytime they got her good, she squealed, morosely, with, "That's hot!"

Three Latin Kings segregate,
Most sinister triumverate,
Round Marky Wahlberg

A funky bunch
They redesign
Marky's Calvin Kleins

With pot ash,
While Wahlberg gets mouthie,
The Ricans pin the hydro on the Southy

Canto II: The FancyDancers

A special place in Hell is reserved in Hell's furnaces,
Apart from all the smouldering masses,
For those who spent their time on earth,
Sashaying their pert and shapely asses.

Observe! Jenna Dewan, belly ring on fire, oscillating wildly, entertaining Hell's whole,

hierarchy, spinning round and round a red-hot stripper's pole, As Tupac sizzles, breakdancing on the white hot ground, to the music of the true Digital "Underground" (wink, wink)

Canto II: The Skanks

Naomi, Tommy Lee and Pauly Shore, all smothered together, writhing, pained, confined to the space of a single roasting tomb,
While Bruce Willis, Nicolette Sheridan, Mick Jagger, Scarlett Johansson, share in the adjoining "room", braising with Colin Farell, in their unspeakably uncomfortable doom.

Canto III: The Angry

"Motherfuck --!"

A loud piercing shouting filled the air, as Sam Jackson, marred by a thousand paper cuts, runs wildly, swinging, like a frightened goose,
While the The Lords of Hell chase after him, in hott pursuit,
Laughing, quoting Ezekiel, squirting lemon juice,

Not far behind -- trailing but hauling ass, Andrew Cuomo, Zell Miller, Avril Lavigne and the rest of that class, as Petronius follows, amused, reading from The Golden Ass.

Canto IV: The Asses

David Hasselhoff here reigns Supreme, big head, big hair, as Royal Highness most serene,
With Ben Affleck, Trump, Kimora licking his cloven hooves clean, with considerable sass,
As David proclaims loudly for all those present that indeed,
"Jean Claude Van Dam IS an Ass"

Canto V: The Dadagers

Terry Shields, Brooke's mother, and Joe Simpson, are hoofing it, performing, giving it their razzle dazzle, for Hell's rank, dark Lord Azazel,
Doing a little song and dance, unto eternity,
Before an unappreciative heckling audience of demonic fraternity.

"Anything Goes,"
sings Joe Simpson, off key,
And the Lord lets fly With rotten tomatoes

Canto VI: The Overexposed

A naked Jude Law is eternally flayed,
For every mediocre role he played,
In which he was cast as the charming cad,
How Sadie Frost whips into him bad.

Canto VII: The Louche
Bad food is served, bad music played,
As this rooms only member moans,
"Everything is awful here, Bad Taste,"
quoth ABC's Star Jones.

Canto VIII: The Crazy

Brittany Murphy is left alone.
Even Hell is afraid of her.

Canto IX: The Politicians
As The Corsair passes by an open tomb,
Bolt upright sits Richard Nixon
Like Dante's Farinata, he asks after politics and wants no fiction.

And so I tell him of Republican gains,
His stony face betrays no hint
Of any emotion, then, suddenly, he lies back in the flames.

Canto X: The Liars
Ashlee Simpson's Pinnocchio Nose, Grows,
With every pseudo pose.

Canto XI: The Boring
Gwyneth Paltrow all alone (yawn),
No cameras, Kaballah,
Nor Cupping marks with low cut dress, she screams, but no one hears her,



starzstylista said...

I daresay you are the only person uniquely gifted enough to produce this. Really really good.

The Corsair said...

Thank you. This is rough. I could have a whole year to put this together and not quite get the rhyme scheme and all the pop culture characters and the punishment to fit the crime, but, hey, there are only so many hours in a day and I appreciate your sompliments.


The Corsair said...

sompliments=compliemnts. BTW: This all came out of my re-reading of the Farinata-Dante exchange and Eric Auerbach's essay in Mimesis. The whole episode was so hauntingly beautiful. This pales before Dante's deathless classic and Auerbach's ferocious literarey criticism. But, God, if I had a year to really do up a pop cultural Inferno for a publishing house (The Corsair sighs), that would be fun ...

starzstylista said...

I've always advocated a Divine Comedy cycle. It would be great; although really the best man to do it would be Mozart.

The Corsair said...

That's a brilliant idea. Only Mozart could capture the otherworldly beauty of Paradiso. Imagine what he would have done to the Farinata exchange. Did you know that Frederico Fellini -- a personal favorite -- was in talks all through his life (Midway through life's journey ..) to make a film version of the Inferno? God, that would be so sick!! Could you imagine his pagan Jungian take on it? Hazard has overruled us both however, as both Fellini and Mozart take their own respective places in the Divine Comedy.