He never thought much of himself. Why he blew the trumpet and why was that trumpet given to him for his first birthday wrapped inside a gasoline soaked newspapers. It was presented as a gift and he never uttered a note to go up against it. What was more curious about his acceptance was that since then he was infatuated with an abandoned dead-end alley. A run-down, rain drenched place deep enough and dark enough to hide his petite physique. But the people somehow found out. A lull drew them in.
see that man ego
inner man hollow
soul of man fallow
hollow man ego
see that man zero
zero man hallow
inner man fallow
fallow man ego
see that man hollow
Screams came out of the windows. Screams followed a young man throwing his life from the balcony. Screams replied from the audience as the trumpet child furiously entered his stride. There were no barriers between the ears and mouths of those involved. They opened their mind to him and he quickly festered. His child hands became pincers as he drew out a wail after wail of anguish reflecting the desperation taking place around him.
For it was his birthday and alley was packed. Crowded like teeth of a grown man. They tore down loose bricks just to smash them amongst themselves. A father brought his firstborn hanging from a flagpole as the youngling vomited and laughed simultaneously. A spectacle worthy of his senseless skill. A high impulse to keep his child hands busy.
The trumpet was unforgiving. Pumping out spews of hate and soaking them back in. Subtly but tangible to the common eye, skin began to withdraw from their owners skulls. As faces flew away, bare bone remained and rain drops made subdued drumming sounds. Eyeballs twitched free. Defaced and shameless the audience danced a bloodthirsty ritual as the night drew down its silky curtains to contain the horrors of the alley and its musician.
see that man hollow
hater man ego
see that man follow
hater man ego
hater man zero
And he just kept going frantically through the night. There were hundreds now. Stacked in piles upon piles of skeletal figures dancing to the sound of a child. Waiters, haters, construction makers, policemen, insatiable lovers, careless mothers, sick dogs, implanted retards, dancing to the sound of a child. No one thought this skin-burned two year old could siphon all their rage and turn it into this cacophony of sin upon this secluded stage. But as the trumpet voraciously chewed upon kilos of skin fragments it became the child’s realization that he might never leave this place. And he never thought he might want to. For it was the need of transmutation that kept him going. He might leave when the audience feels to let him go. For he was desperately needed to stockpile all of the things those sinners couldn’t tap into or wouldn’t let their families do it for them. They deposited themselves inside his trumpet.
long may he live. long may he live.
long may his children drift through the wind.
to think is a sin. to think is a sin.
long may his world never begin.
More suicides embalmed the alley. It was about to burst as the child trumpeter unleashed his audible metal scrapings upon the flock. Walls crumbled and railings twisted like overcooked spaghetti. Disjointed glances, soaked in sweat, preyed upon this youngster waiting for his inevitable mistake. To break the spell of his own creation. They waited patiently. But it wouldn’t come. For what came was what was and the child knew that. But their order was far greater then he could deliver. They violently clacked their teeth in anger when the tempo lowered. Pointing their bony fingers at the boy. He could never withstand accusations. Yes, he agreed to become a vessel for this crowd but only for the bad things they had with the world outside the alley. Never had he imagined they would turn on their bishop.
Child gripped his trumpet firmly and ushered in a wall of his own anger. His instrument distorted a chilling haze vomiting all of the digested skin sheets before his feet. Animated corpses had a sudden realization of their own. Seeing that they’ve been ridiculed to the point of bubbling organs hanging through their very anatomy, audience engaged ferociously in scavenging the spewed out skins. They mixed it all up. They fashioned a new fashion. They became people again, hanging random skin patterns upon their physique. And the music glued it down. The skin patterns were mixed to a point of non resemblance to the original owner.
It became apparent that the night was coming to an end. The working man had to go home. Child doesn’t think how his trumpet sings. Walls don’t blink, and the rain won’t sink. As the thundering came out of the instrument the bodies danced in their last tumultuous synchronicity. Like soldiers marching on a bridge the walls began to unhinge. And the audience gathered around. Their child, their life sound. Canned and mutilated their needs were not satiated. And slowly the raindrops slowed to a standstill so they would witness their greedy faces in a sincere reflection. A passageway is closing. The sound is growing dim. This was just a boy playing his trumpet for your sick sin. Patients are blowing kisses to themselves, saying goodbyes to fake ties. And the boys face is serene. He is only 2 and the whole world could start anew. Yet the alley exit is blocked and patients are wondering amok. They stomp their feet. Rhythm. Feet. Rhythm. Night dried up. He’s just a kid. Gotta sleep, gotta sleep! A passageway is closing. As they remain there. Entrenched among the walls. Cut off. Rhythm. Feet. Rhythm. Night dried up. He’s just a kid. Gotta sleep, gotta sleep! A passageway is closing. Entrenched among the walls. Cut off the alley that ate their souls. No Words No Thoughts.