Ode to Dvorak

Rising before us, the pregnant stage point stands,
every eye and ear awaiting the conductor’s leap
because when that hand swings, the sun will spring to life

and I and my mate, we are swallowed in the sunrise,
carried at the centre of a world awash with morning music,
drowning in Dvorak, Debussy, delight.

The breeze builds,
the wind roars and something explodes.
Violence and love go to war
with untoned arms in tune,
slashing and sawing.
I am attacked.
Ranks of architects, accountants and teachers,
march with dusk-drilled grace,
I see as headless bodies from where I lay slain near the grand legs.
Demisemiquavers quake like a bow
at the sound of a rattling quiver half-full
as the brown bass rolls beneath the army’s feet.

They strike, turn, execute
the music and me,
and I am strung up, unskinned
by, after all the fear,

a slow elbow.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s