The Organ Underground (Reprise)

or The Twisting of the Twisted

This is a reprise or revisiting of a setting, atmosphere and narrative from my fantasy series, which I first began to describe poetically in The Organ Underground.

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The West Arthurs, Australia (2021).

Beneath the earth, above the moon,
There sits a boy who plays his tune
Upon an organ made of stone
Within a cavern; not alone;
Where ancient bellows breathe and gasp and moan.

He plays for joy and sweet despair;
For something he cannot repair;
For things above, for gods below;
For dances only shadows know.
He plays, in secret, so his fear won't show.

For deep within the astral earth,
Where gemstones wink with sacred mirth,
A thing with teeth and tongues of flame
Yearns to taste and torch the names
Of all who venture down to stake their claim.

A thing despised; a thing removed;
A thing sustained by bitter ooze.
An exile from an upright land
Where kings were kings and hands were hands,
And monster's were within command of man.

Its mem'ry seldom stirred by light,
It harkens to the minstrel's might;
To tunes from times when it was young
And all the world was on its tongues --
Morsels which, with every bite, benumbed.

It longs to taste; it longs to sate
Itself with every ray of hate
Which it can wring with its own claws
From each soft spark of divine lore;
It reaches, ravenous, for more and more.

It reaches out its crooked limbs,
Full-filled with music to its brim.
It creeps up close behind the boy
Intending one last desperate ploy
To slay this master and his flesh enjoy.

The boy plays on with endless ardour;
It rises up to strike the master,
Though at the last, it pauses, fixed,
As the music suddenly risks
A final rich, redemptive, painful twist.

The thing, subdued, then falls right back
Into the shadows, black on black,
Its fire of envy suddenly cold,
As in its wounds, hopes take hold,
Renewing its love for the boy's sweet soul.

For all things buried underneath,
And wanderers, the moon beneath,
Are twisting myth and twisting tune,
Subverting soul, to slay the moon --
The fools. To twist the twisted is a boon.

The organ underground goes wrong:
Its meter keeps thump-thumping on!
The thing is digging ever higher;
The boy is calling up the fire;
The moon subverts itself, the liar.

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