automatic music

October 29, 2009
By Mariana SILVER, Los Angeles, California
Mariana SILVER, Los Angeles, California
9 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Lakes hate the sound of screeching
tires. Their pristine rolls frequent the
ears like rotten milk. But the two cannot
coexist as the voices are in his head,
creating conflict not yet present. He
is blinded by the beauty of one and
then pushed to the ground by the
ferocious oboe player in the second
row. It’s dark and shivering in the night
as the sleek wood collides with the heads
of the man, unbeknownst to the tuba’s
presence in his stomach. He is motionless
as the double basses join the party, bows
in hands, gripped. Somewhere far away,
a man is howling in pain, a mouthpiece
shoved down his windpipe. The curtains open.
A little boy dances across a crowded room as
the man fades away. The boy jumps higher
than the trumpet player’s scream. His sister
joins him, the fire reflected in their eyes.
They dance as the place burns. They hardly care.
Dancings all that makes sense as the keys become
rigid and stick like glued fabric to one another.
Snow falls on his nose as the sirens rage.
They are alone now, engulfed by flame as the men yell.
They are told to leave. They dance until they are swallowed
by the fire and the creatures, which call them to it.
The spirits drag them away as the news begins to break.
Trucks speed away. The children are gone, but their
legacy lies on the stage on which they died.
The movie begins.
Life is closing.
The children are clouds,
guarding neighborhood villages together,
making lazy circles.
They belong to the stage
and now the sky in their canvas.
But as the children gaze down on the rest of us,
we are just sinking like everyone else.
We are tyrants,
and thieves.
They tell us so.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book