The Master The Creator

The saint choir of piano keys surrenders
To silence: rarefied, tensed, fearing to be pierced
By lightning. It comes, it comes,
Thunder through the sickly catacombs.

Day, week, year or millennia:
I have grown into the wall like moss,
Ripped time and again from its corner -
A cobweb thread of saliva and blood

Devoured my shadow, took its place;
Not even my own ribs, blackened
Are mine beyond my reach. Possessed
By a god, a thousand-legged spider.

---

Endless corridors and no emergency escape,
Blocked by the cunning mind,
Barricaded, cemented shut, immured.

Imprisoned at the bottom of the dried well,
Checkered prison bars jabbing through the clouds.
Those dirty floors, sticky and black from blood,
That stone silence and lonely drops of rusty water.
He comes, he comes.

My solar plexus tears from the inside,
The explosion of kicks reverberates
Deep in my diaphragm:
Short circuiting contacts, wires,
Gears and bones crack in a marching drum roll;

A surprisingly human groan breaks away from my lips,
It shakes the walls with it ghostly presence.
Somewhere in the night sky my decrepit guardian angel awakens;
Helpless, unable to gaze down to the bottom of this well,
To break the harnesses, to unbend the rods.

The black-gloved hand reaches out,
Smooth flowing leather burns like boiling metal,
Into the crevice of my cheekbone.
Look at me, look into my eyes! I want to see your face!
Perfekt. Wie erwartet.
Whisper, scalding breath.
Infinitely into his contemptuous sparkling eyes -
Master.

A black raven darts off of the pine branch -
Knock - ill flash. I fall back into the arms of obscurity.

---

You’re powerless, Herr Aufseher -
Rag doll clad in orders and armour.
The hope and the hero of tin soldiers -
One Master’s living, almost breathing toy.

You’re weak under your uniform:
The Master sees it through - his creation.
Almighty, omnipotent,
Evil god, grim puppeteer, poet.

Master, Master,
In a black tailcoat, top-hat, gloves -
Tailored are they by the devil?
Does a greater evil than your genius exist?
Blow after blow,
The crackle of cartilage
Under your cane and the icy impact
Of your leather boots.

Vile satire, contrast of shadow theatre:
Unbreakable in play, untouchable victor -
And you’re but a knot of strings under my palm!
Herr Aufseher - thrown like a doll against walls,
Battered and beaten.
The screech of the cogwheels under your collarbones
Uncloaks your deepest pain.

The Master doesn’t let you go in peace.
The Master keeps his pet for gruesome entertainment.
You won’t escape until the Master
Tosses the keys to your feet.