A plumber’s blowtorch, soldering a tube,
will reach about 2000 centigrade.
Cleaned copper, fluxed, when heat pulls solder through
should make a joint that’s good enough for trade.
You’ve got to flush the flux out quickly though
to make sure all the chemicals will fade.
When spending all your days on quite a few
you fold yourself in spaces tight and cramped.
The flux will turn your fingers green and blue,
the chemicals make sure some pain is stamped
in hidden cuts across your dirty hands,
and make your cigarette feel greased and damp.
You do enough and find you cannot stand
that shit, and rest a while to catch a break
even though behind on what you’ve planned.
But rolling cigarettes is a mistake.
The paper slides in fingers stained by grease.
This isn’t quite how long you meant to take.
They say it takes about two minutes’ peace
while you’re away and staring at the sky
for fire to take a hold and then increase.
You only have to once forget to try
to concentrate and put the blowtorch down
for it to fall and end up on its side
from one foot flames that barely leave the ground
the smoke will fill the ceiling space up first
the top third of a room a toxic brown,
until you see the flame flashover burst
before the walls and carpet start to strand
with fire like a waterfall reversed.
And this is where we are. On burning sand,
emerging from the Forest into heat.
The popping ember blizzards come to land
on melting naked flesh, the pain repeats
it’s endless rain – some people curled or crouched
and rocking back and forth in lost defeat,
some lying on their backs try shouting out
at every glowing piece of grit on their
bare skin, still others pacing out their doubt –
as if in unknown war zones, anywhere
the rest of us have never heard before
or passed the opportunity to care.
I ask about one guy there on the floor,
whose folded arms, crossed ankles, staying mute
as if all this is easily ignored.
I question Pat – “That guy seems resolute.
Who IS he?” Pat’s already done this once
so says nothing. Just looks down at his boots.
“My NAME’S Dave CAPANEUS.” He is blunt
and blasphemous. “Oh Jesus FUCKING Christ
I don’t care. When I leave I’m going to punch
the living crap from God. I’ll do it twice!”
Ignoring bunker busting bombs nearby
he scrambles to his feet to start a fight.
Now Patrick’s not a temperamental guy.
I’ve barely seen him say an angry word.
But slowly growing redder he lets fly.
His “DO SHUT UP!” is louder than I’ve heard
from any other person. Comical
somehow, yet leaves a silence undisturbed
that only he can break. He then recalls
that Capaneus lost it with a guy
who wouldn’t pay for plumbing he installed.
He tried to climb his building when he died
from falling form the second window sill,
to hurt his client cowering inside.
“Let’s just keep going. See that river filled
in over there? With concrete that won’t set?
Go round the Forest’s edge there if you will.
This is as amazing as it gets.
Above this stream there isn’t any flame,
so we can wiggle through but don’t get wet.
A London island near here that’s un-named
abandoned in the middle of the Thames
and made of concrete, has the odd remains
of aggregate that’s piled up in tens,
and at the centre of the tallest mound
they say an unknown builder there who spends
Eternity, but faced towards the town,
is buried there. His head is made of gold
his arms and chest are silver, further down
his arse and legs are brass, but then I’m told
his left foot’s made of iron, right one clay.
The right one takes his weight but doesn’t hold
and so this builder’s cracked in every way
(except the gold which somehow stays there whole)
and concrete pours out every single day
from every crack and orifice. It rolls
to fill these flowing tributaries you see.”
“How come I’ve never noticed (if it’s “Old”)
this island and the streams. They’re new to me!”
“There’s lots you haven’t seen and more to come.
Now follow down this stream from near the trees.
Another twenty cantos, then we’re done!”
Social tagging: canto > dante > inferno > plumbing > poetry
