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02 February 2009

Canto XV

Still in hell, wallowing in sh-t. The bishop who was mentioned in XIV is here again:
head down, screwed into the swill,
his legs waving and pustular,
a clerical jock strap hanging back over the navel
his condom full of black beetles,
tattoo marks round the anus,
and a circle of lady golfers about him.

Now that is funny.
And there are more targets, including the praisers of the past:
claiming that the sh-t used to be blacker and richer
and the fabians crying out for the petrification of putrefaction

It's 1930, remember, and you get a strong taste of the kind of disgust for the politics of the time (both right and left) that fed into fascism or communism, the belief that conventional politics had failed the people and some kind of strong leader was needed. Typographically, it's noticeable how lower case it all is.

The Dante analogy returns. The narrator questions his guide on what is going on and how to get out of this bog. Using a Medusa shield, the narrator and the guide solidify the ground and make their escape into sunlight

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