Heaven is a Place Where Nothing Ever Happens


I’m not much of a religious man
-you wouldn’t catch me praying
to the body of the bleating lamb
or cattle a-laying.

something tells me God
is a disgraceful old sod
and Heaven’s a club
for all-night raving,
& me and you
must line up and queue
while He’s in there and on it,
glow sticks waving.

Soon we’ll see His lights,
pick up the P.A. playing.
The Word is that it’s Good tonight,
so we don’t begrudge paying
though we’re not sure still
who’s on the bill
and nobody’s saying..

And nobody leaves:
They keep letting more in.
Out here it’s hard to say
If that’s a good or a bad thing.

* * *

the bouncer
bursts into view,
chucks out the chavs
checks out the shoes.
A quick once-over
And we’re through.

Next is the turn
of the totty on the till
who tots up your treachery
in an itemised bill-
each drunken lechery
each ill will;
and if you have problems
with the means to pay
she’ll refer you to a social scheme
with a place to stay
in Purgatory. Paradise is still yours,
of course,
you’ll just have to come back the long way.

As I approach
she pulls out my list-
quickly scans one night stands
and millstones to grist,
promises broken
nonsenses spoken,
chances I’d missed;
a catalogue of catastrophes, in short,
that when I see it in writing
makes me pissed.
But when she totals the bill.
It’s less than I thought-
maybe they just keep records
of cases that reach court.
Still, it’s informative to find
that most of my evil was just in my mind .

* * *

I get through the gates,
Sidle up to the bar:
“Serve me a Stella
or, failing that, ambrosia.”

Now, I don’t mean the creamed rice
Made by cows in Devon
And frankly I’d be surprised and disappointed
to find semolina in heaven.
No there’s no mushy peas
blues reds greens
no crack clam chowder;
no b’s no e’s
mind your q’s and p’s
lose your wrap of powder.

These are poisonous supplementaries
that do not cure or heal or ease
the pointless carryings-on in town
of the cash and carry crap heads
that got you down.

They are all gone now,
All’s soft and warm.
Jesus has needled us.
It’s a shot in the arm.

And yea, if should happen
That we gurn or we gouch
Jesus will lead us
To the safety of a couch
And He won’t call our parents
Or shine a torch in our eyes
Or point out our pupils
Are quite the wrong size.

He won’t say he gives up
or that really it’s beyond Him how we thought we’d ever get anywhere in this world by the telling of lies,
anywhere in this world
by the getting of high.

Anywhere is somewhere.
We get by.

Well, I’ve rather rambled again;
I’ve friends to see
At half past three
On an ethereal plane.
Must get a move on
to avoid the rain.

You must stop by sometime again.
Visitors welcome.

Heaven’s boring.

Every night’s the same.

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