The Musical Box

The note travels in a box, tainted in black pus, sculpted by the teeth of a carnivore, and plays whenever flesh abandons my body, who has learned to play along its beautiful, carnival melody.

“Take me very swiftly to the place where I can see you,” I say and it opens and from its triangular eye, and its cyclical lines, the chords follow, I nod tooth by tooth, and it extracts what it needs and I’m shown, as I expected, a light, a gift, and a moment of sorrow. Together they mix and I inject them, I gargle them up in steps, and then wonder aloud about what I’m doing to my body, already so distressed, and consumed from within.

But the tune plays and I dance with my three toes and everything seems transcendental.

A little sensation, a tingling in the tongue, a spine being removed, a muscle torn in pieces, an eyebrow being erased, and I dance to a smooth flow, a little fight of the senses, for I hear constantly what I listen to and can often look at the eye, drown in its vision, and know exactly where to go, what to do, and when, and with whom, and at what price. It gives and also receives trivialities.

It has enough of me, as it was meant to be, to give me things I rarely envisioned, things that I need in more quantities. There is enough money to feed a country, enough food to give me fat and muscle to tribute, enough water to stop a drought, enough love to satisfy my flat heart, enough ecstasy to survive a million winters, and yet, and yet, my body crumbles along, I play with its meter, I dance to its rhythm, and I have to give more and more of what I’ve earned.

Soon enough, there it will only suffice if I give it a piece of my brain, a piece of my skin, a little space in my stomach where it can live and digest in peace, but if I can hear the song again, the voice of its instruments, I will, just to receive, just to get, and then I can give, exactly what I want.

When it is time to give a soul, in which manner should it be given? Along its sonata, where the night coldly makes me shiver in lungs? Along its crescendo, where I can swallow through a hole the last gasps remaining of air in the world? Along its static beat, where I can I can cut a scalp and scream in happiness, while its beautiful essence slips through, escaped, marveled, anticipating?

I lose it, as it was meant to happen, and am trapped, not surprisingly, in the screeching thunders of its music, how little it takes, for it to become unbearable, a cage with a sound consuming, an obsession again, an obsession which was in a mind like mine, to the side, above, below, all tangled up, smiling in blissful heaven afterlight, banging drums, licking guitars, trampling on keys at the same time with the same regret.


I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.

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Eric S. V. B.

I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.