The Music Box

The music box

 

As I am reading I am watching this old music box, I have just gently lifted the lid

The ballerina is turning, the music is playing, however the clockwork mechanism is loudly clanking and the ballerina is crying tears of blood.

 

On the inside of the lid is a mirror that shows an entirely different image from the one you would expect. It is Sal’s poem unfolding… the ballerina steps off her pedestal and passes though the mirror into the unforgiving landscape of…. ‘The Bog’      

 

Could this be real?   This alternative reality… This nightmare of such epic proportions

Such as the like of which no human has ever seen before.

Slamming the lid shut the ballerina bursts though the dark polished wood as the music builds to a crescendo she sings out of tune words from her desecrated tomb.

The mechanism sounding now like an insidious drumming, as the drummer boy enters though my ear

Three soldiers standing to attention, two flanking the ‘nut cracker’ wise

Bayonets fixed at the ready, sharp and shiny so pointy the ballerina her bodies too precisely incise.

 

Now the drumming is growing louder and louder cannon balls starting to fall.  Crators appearing on the ground all around me, as the mists of time turn to smoke, slowly rising casting visions in my mind so repugnant, water seeping upwards, startling, gurgling, mixing with the blood and the mud and the flesh and the bones.

 

Bodies strew, like five sticks engender a memory of childhood so dejectedly broken. Horses smashed to smatterings and smidgens, headless and legless empty saddles there lay, with paint slowly peeling like bark from a dead tree. 

My mind can’t stop reeling, regaling, in a cruel form of insidious joy.

A church bell starts clanging, the echo resounding, bouncing back from the depths of Hades.

A bowel so impacted, stomach so extended, distension and an insidious smell. Sulphur, fire and brimstone and other concoctions, stories only the bible can tell.

The pits of hell surly opened with the lifting so gently of that lid of the box on my mums dressing table top...  scREAMing loudly.  Sounds once drowned out by the sounds of a battle, beginning to swell, bursting the drums inside my ears .  

Then as silence tumbles, descending I awake, pretending,  "ReALLY I’VE got nothing to fear."

                                                                                                                                         Po

 

For you Big Guy... Wherever you are!  In all its savagery and phenomenal beauty and wonderings, assaulting, saluting and also polluting the innocent mind of a boy.    

ode to a friendsurrealism

◄ Hypo

Why? ►

Comments

poemagraphic

Tue 12th Feb 2019 13:57

Crumbs Do!

…"soul stirring poetical merry go round with the song of a girl desperately enacting the runner dancer and a hell keeper."

That one line is worthy of a poem wrapped around it!

Your comments mean a great deal to me.

Nothing inspires me to do better, than knowing my poetry inspires this kind of comment.

Thank you again for your constant and continued support.

Po

Do

Tue 12th Feb 2019 13:38

I must say dear Po..........that was a ride.....phew!!! climax and then anticlimax.....heart skipped a beat at every word i read in your final stanza...soul stirring poetical merry go round with the song of a girl desperately enacting the runner dancer and a hell keeper.
claps!!! claps!! claps!!
i always adore your work..'ts a mix baggage of emotions.

poemagraphic

Tue 12th Feb 2019 12:19

A memorandum to a big big guy.

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