the devil's table
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Transcript of the devil's table
The Devil’s Table
by
Francis Booth
© 2011 by Francis Booth
Act 1
The Narrator
Politely invited, you sit down to dine at the devils table. A
princely and most elegant host. Smaller than he looks on
TV but immaculate in white tie and tails, with his own tail,
twin forked, trailing. And the cloven hooves are, rather
shockingly, bare of shoes. The two horns lend an air of
devilish charm, and do not mar the fine and handsome,
though rather worn features of his friendly face. A gentle
man, kind and solicitous. A scholar, a man of profound
learning and understanding. A man of discreet wealth
and perfect taste. A man of sorrows and, obviously, well
acquainted with grief. He immediately makes you feel at
home and at ease and, like all perfect hosts, makes you
feel the most important person in the room.
The Dead
staring down through the mephitic miasma
into the vertiginous vortex below
into the tombs
into the catacombs
you see the endless ranks
of the grey-suited dead
carcasses of cadaverous corpses
looking up
through translucent veined eyelids
nodding gently
in recognition and welcome
they acknowledge you as one of their own
a long lost comrade
at long last re-united
a lonely wanderer
returning alone and empty handed
dejected
despairing
dispirited
from the diversion
the digression
of existence on earth
they wait patiently
silently
rejoicing
as you rightfully
rejoin their ranks
The Angels
above
hover the storied ranks
of recording angels
fluttering on white wings
flickering like candle flames
in the breathless
impenetrable dark
with seraphic smiles and beneficent eyes
benevolent sighs and beatific cries
beautiful and bountiful
whispering in semi-silent susurration
a vestigial vespers of veneration
a requiem of rest and respect
of release and repose
tenebrae responsories
evensong exequies
ossuary obsequies
the beating of angel wings
carries their chorus
on a breeze of blessings
a breath of hope
a caress of caring and kindness
an embrace of ecstasy
enduring and endearing
The Narrator
The devil looks at you with his enigmatic eyes and his
empathetic smile and says:
The Devil
now comes man
blind
like a refugee
an evil thief
peccant
craving pardon
remorseful but not repentant
regretful but not resolved
so passes human life
vanquished
cloaked in grief
sad faces, dead eyes
so passes human life
a small island of bones
shattered into dust
so passes human life
a valley drowned in tears
bathed in blood and bitter regret
a sorrowful city
full of pestilence and plague
fire and flood
ruled by snakes and cockroaches
the streets filthy with effluent
roads that return on themselves
and lead nowhere
buildings abandoned
houses deserted
hemmed in by hidden danger
new risks at every turn
sitting with folded arms
staring at the ground
a sword hanging over every head
bowed in submission
conquered
subdued
surrendered
light without life
a world without meaning
Act 2
The Narrator
The fine but faded white linen on the devil’s table is crisp
and starched in an old fashioned manner. The cracked
crystal cups are a reminder of a gentler and more
delicate age but you can not help wondering if the bone
china is made from actual bones and if the red stains on
the table cloth are the reminders of a fine red wine or
spots of long dried blood. Hell’s kitchen, as it turns out,
serves the finest food. Everything is freshly made from
local organic produce, perfectly prepared and
presented. The aromas of exotic spices float in from the
kitchen.
The Dead
the dead do not weep
the dead do not bleed
the dead have no memories
no fears and no regrets
the dead have no past
no future
only a pain-free present
released and redeemed
from the essential excrescences of existence
from having to bear the unbearable burden
the miseries and mysteries of life
the dead do not dream
are not discontented nor disheartened
have no desires or disappointments
are never humbled or humiliated
rejected or rebuffed
they remember nothing and forget nothing
the tortures and torments of life left behind
the chaos and complexity conquered
order and simplicity attained
peace and rest regained
The Angels
the angels swoop
softly
singing aloft
gracious and graceful
alighting lightly on the altar piece
the mausoleum monument
set in the sepulchre
the reredos rearing up
rising to the sky
in a timeless tableau of terror
white angel wings
set against an infinite pool
of deepest obsidian
blood-flecked
with fire-flashed flaming rubies
a soaring shining shrine
a silent cenotaph
wreathed with writhing serpents
carved by tearful saints and fearful sinners
fanned by angel feathers
blessed by angel breath
washed clean by angel tears
The Devil
so is human life on earth
the plaything of perhaps
locked in a chamber of chance
a prisoner of fortune and fate
restlessly
ceaselessly
tossed by evil and misfortune
washed up on the shore of misery
tormented by hunger
suffering agonies of thirst
drowned in a flood of disappointment
swimming against a river swollen by rain
numb with cold
but dried up
in the scorching
parching heat of the sun
devoured by flames
fanned by the wind
burned to ashes
cinder white
consumed by the fire of ambition
abandoned to apathy
poisoned by passion
paralysed by pain
prostrated
by grief and fear
laid on a bed of sickness
wavering
between hope and despair
Act 3
The Narrator
The devil is an engaging companion. He sometimes
touches your arm affectionately as he talks. Although the
conversation is rather, in fact completely, one sided, and
rather negative in tone, you find it, strangely, uplifting
rather than depressing. You come to accept, willingly,
and with no little sense of relief, the devil’s polite but
gently insistent invitation. He accompanies you to the
edge of the abyss, and shows you the scene below. He
makes it clear that the decision is yours and yours alone.
Though obviously the decision is final, you have no trouble
in making it.
The Dead
from the abyss below
the dead raise their arms in salute
readied to steady your fall
your downward descent
into the deep
into the dark
womb-like tomb
a soft landing in a safe haven
helping hands hold you
in a lover’s embrace
Penelope welcoming Ulysses
from strange times
in far and fabled lands
returned at last
the hero
with homeward heart
with terrible tales to tell
of sad sights seen
and desperate deeds done
now the aimless wandering ends
in eternal redemption
in eternal release
in eternal rest
The Angels
the angel choir
chants a cantata of calm
the angel orchestra
plays a symphony of solace
celebrations of invocation
evocations of benediction
indications of benefaction
the angel dancers
flying apsaras
floating freely
dancing daintily
delicately
to the quiet thrum of distant drums
to the drones of dulcet dulcimers
shawms and sackbuts
sound through the silence
cymbals and ting-sha
citterns and theorbos
lutes and lyres
playing litanies for the lost
harps plucked
plangently in pianissimo
the seraphic sentinels
forming filigree figures
traces trailing in the empty air
as they willingly grant your wish
and gladly wish you gentle
goodbye
The Devil
how sweet
weary of travelling
to use one's last ounce of strength
to throw oneself
from the ramparts
of the city of sorrow and sin
and sink into the soft earth beneath
in the last day
the last few hours
to drown the cup of poison
and end the pain
end the punishment
end the torture and torment
to forget regret
to fall gently into the abyss
and sever the mind from the senses
no more the need to run
from the wrath and rage
of a vengeful and vindictive
but vacant and void god
a god that has no dominion over the dead
and can only torture the living
how tempting is the tomb
the return to the womb
how welcoming is the soft
warm earth of the grave
how sweet is the sepulchre
the silence of the cenotaph
how sweet is the dark
gentle
eternal
night