Resident poet Nigel Parkin pens a poem celebrating one of the most disgusting scenes in Lucio Fulci’s The Gates of Hell
VOMIT FROM HELL
Tommy has chosen the worst part of town To park, right by the dilapidated Old hotel, exhaling decay in cold Mist, sighing with secrets, half heard horrors, Whispered tales of visions and perversions, Deviant acts of witches’ descendants. ‘That stupid Salem witch stuff,’ Tommy likes To call it, while really relishing it. That’s why he’s here, holding Rose in place with Tight, insistent arms, unbuttoning her Shirt to reach for a reluctant breast, his Mind crowded with images of naked Virgins writhing in the grip of demons. One day, he tells himself, he’ll film such things. But in the meantime Rose cannot relax. She pushes him away, telling him she Feels they’re being watched, suggesting maybe Some Satanic sixth sense stirs within her, Bubbling, churning, ready to turn her Inside out.
Sensing his moment slipping away Tommy resorts to the rational, switching His lights on to penetrate the creeping Gloom and to reveal what stands before them – A stack of shadows…nothing more.
For a moment Rose is satisfied.
Then Hell reveals itself. Father Thomas, Hanging from a beam, haggard, haunted, Oh so dead, his head pulled at an angle That speaks violently of self inflicted Punishment…or release? Did he tighten This noose around his neck to open A door to another dimension, where Angry souls convulse in worm infested Catacombs? Has he become their master? Certainly he has a power beyond Our understanding, a hold over all That rots or writhes. And now he has a hold Over Rose, commanding her senses as He moves invisibly closer to her, Forcing her to turn, mesmerising her When he reappears in a cold blue glow At her side, his spirit penetrating Her mind with unholy force, crushing her Brain within her skull. She is a picture Of petrified terror, eyes weeping blood.
And now comes the real horror. From somewhere Deep within her comes the sound of violent, Agonised retching, weird, disembodied, As if some hideously sick creature Has taken root in her gut, dragging up Her intestines as it heaves and lurches In its own corrosive pain. Bilious, Bloody froth bubbles and spits in her mouth As an acidic warning, a sign of The outpouring to come. Her mouth will be The passageway for all sorts of matter Dredged up from Hell – a knotted ball of curled, skinless bodies, chaotically entwined, Unravelling and spilling as a mass Of tiny human legs and arms, rodents, Worms, giant roaches and maggots, tumbling And slopping in a soupy cascade – slurped Finally by the flopping terrible Tongue of a bowel-busting bottom feeder.
And poor Tommy thought he’d come here for kicks! The only kick here is the brutal boot To his own gut. Doubled up in disgust, He coughs up stuff he didn’t know he had Inside him but the shock has just begun. A hand, unknown, inconceivable, grabs The back of his head, squeezes, crushing bone And pulping brain, which oozes through fingers That now push what’s left of Tommy’s head Down with a satisfying, final SPLAT!