#adrian mitchell

Adrian Mitchell, from a poem titled "Celia Celia," featured in Poems Underground

Celia, celia, Adrian Mitchell, 1933-1984

DEATH IS SMALLER THAN I THOUGHT My Mother and Father died some years ago I loved them very much. When they died my love for them Did not vanish or fade away. It stayed just about the same, Only a sadder colour. And I can feel their love for me, Same as it ever was. Nowadays, in good times or bad, I sometimes ask my Mother and Father To walk beside me or to sit with me So we can talk together Or be silent . They always come to me. I talk to them and listen to them And think I hear them talk to me. It's very simple - Nothing to do with spiritualism Or religion or mumbo jumbo. It is imaginary. It is real. It is love. ~Adrian Mitchell

Two holes were the size of the holes in his ears. They were rounded, and as they opened and shut They seemed to make a sound like sighing. Two holes were the size of his nostrils, Close together and dark inside And breathing out a smell of something – rotting. Two holes were the size of his eyes And they were trying to clench themselves To hold back – the red tears. One hole was the size of his mouth And it cried out With the voice of – an old child. One hole was the size of the hole In the end of his cock And it was skewered with a white-hot, turning gimlet. One hole was the size of the hole in his arse, Small and wincing away from the light And it went – very deep. Petrol was poured into all his holes. All of his holes were set on fire. They covered his holes with a clean uniform. They flew him home. There was a flag. In the village he loved, they put him in a hole.