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WHEN YOU DIE (A POEM).

14 December 2005

When you die
And I’m speaking to every single person in this room

When you die
And when you get to Hell

And you’re bent over

And your pants are down

And the Devil comes over

And sticks you with his Pitchfork

In your ass:

What do you think that’s going to feel like?
What is that going to feel like, inside of your head, while that’s happening?
While that’s really happening?
For a hundred million years?

(I’m sorry. That is such an exaggeration. I mean, in a hundred million years, you will just barely have started to be raped in the ass by Satan–forever. A hundred million years is nothing! It is a blink of an eye compared to the length your sentence in Hell.)

I’ll answer my own question
Since you obviously won’t

What does it feel like, to be jabbed with the Devil’s pitchfork?

I’ll tell you what it feels like.

It feels exactly like regret.

That’s what regret is. It’s the devil sticking his fingers into your belly, right here [indicates stomach]. Right here, but in the fourth dimension, and wiggling his fingers all around. That’s what regret is. That’s all it is. And that’s why your regret is so hard to let go of.

And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

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