I walk into the club, 

    it's hot and it's loud

I feel the music and 

    make my way through the crowd

Onto the floor, 

    I can't take any more

Needing release of the 

    tension I've stored

 My heart keeps time with the 

    thump of the beat

People so close that I 

    feel all their heat

Climax is building 

    inside me and out

DJ drops bass and 

    I let out a shout

Techno rythm melts 

    my worries away

I can let go of the 

    stress from the day

Surrender control and 

    I move to the sound

Lost in the joy of the 

    freedom I've found

Mascara running in 

    streaks down my face

Now wearing soaking 

    wet leather and lace

I won't stop dancing 

    until it breaks dawn

And then I'll still beg him 

    for just one more song.

I adore all musicals on Broadway,

A whole world erupting in song and dance.

My beloved melodious mainstay,

Whether drama, comedy, or romance.

My absolute favorite is Les Mis,

Based on Victor Hugo’s classic novel.

Claude-Michel Schönberg, a musical whiz,

While Fantine dies, Thernardiers grovel.

I’m also quite partial to Chicago,

With Kander and Ebb’s murderous matrons.

Set in the 20’s, rather long ago,

Long-running show with numerous patrons.

The Producers, Fiddler on the Roof,

42nd Street, Grease, The Lion King.

And Spamalot, a Monty Python spoof,

Whenever I hear them, can’t help but sing.

Carousel, Gypsy, Oklahoma too,

Annie, Cats, and, of course, South Pacific.

So many choices, what’s a girl to do?

Each and every one is terrific.

There’s also Wicked and A Chorus Line,

West Side Story, Phantom, and Cabaret.

Great lyrics and music, soundtracks divine,

That I could listen to every day.

The world is a symphony,

It sings the tragedy,

That is dying each moment,

with each sounding key.

No conductor can simply

instruct this discord

this cacophony of falsity

the hum of the bored

(our disheartened).

Chaotic is the tune we hear playing out,

muffled screaming in an ambient cloud of electronics buzzing

and the splash of the loud

radioactive waste in staccato,

decrescendoing while it is found

drip-drop dripping away at our collective tomorrows.

This unmistakable sound,

gets lost in the bellows

of the masses .

sorrows screamed in the crowds

who are marching to the beat

of their own unique drummers

whilst

they play it all out

on the doldrums.

It thunders,

from these percussive instruments, Our loud clattering blunder. Composed of a fodder, made up from the utter mundane.

A monotony, formed fully

from the day to day struggle.

But The chorus refrains from any rebuttal.

Uttered cries will get muted, ceased, and are muffled, then they're replaced with an echoed rest and stifled.

The duration maintains

till all who took note get beguilled,

the mind change

Sustained in the fall of a mild silence denoting a farce of "okay",

but this poisonous jingle though muted still plays.

Longevity to be the

casualty of this

harmonized haze of all that's amiss,

destroyed,

or in phase to collapse

from all this folly,

These things we cannot take back.

All the while we are the producer's who've mastered this track.

So sing your songs low, of indignant resendence

for these things that our well meaning advancements have lended.

And respect what we've hindered for it is granted no more,

If this Life is a battle,

we have lost the war.

Then hear it,

in our final moments

turmoils score.

Resounding with a profound sense of loss,

and before the last smoke does clear and

the real toll is told

the weeping tunes of regret will be sang

as a whole,

from the bottom of each and every poor soul,

who now knows the hard way their errors

and won't again place

the value of gold above that of life.

but its too late now,

I'm told

thus is life.

PIMPLY TEENAGER, excited goon, in real years, in the beginning, in exuberated in an outward changes blown by the rage of destiny reeled past everything between here and there; this mad screamed way tooooo deep of sorts that I knew (knew!) would end up becoming all that; let us gravitate within the hidden snow flurries in light speed down this country road, in George’s Caprice, a boat of an automobile floored where the cornfields plowed dark rows mud clumps only seen in the immediate headlight distance at the shoulders plummeting flurries streaked then in George’s brights. “tail you what” - The short squirm, squeamish cheekbones protruded at me. That was everything; so awesome, the mature anticipations with some Dinosaur Jr., which the excited goon, George, ricochet over-exposed t-shirts within, like screennames, Avatari; his ratty flannel unbuttoned, an eyebrow ring with my little pipe reflecting some tie-dye swirled-in colors on plastic reflecting my mind, hip facial hairs that were in actuality just too too sore to shave all the time; so, thinking, George cared as we drove further than we had to; for just a little thing, “you know the Peanuts part in LA Woman?” to clean and scrape, key plowed away resin caked black around the edges of the chamber; until runny stains stuck and the pyre smell consumed the air in the car and my icky fingers twisted and screwed the bowl back together awkwardly felt. George, cheesed over the music.

We had just head to some stripshop—enter the place in some commercial area parking lot SHATTERED ‘Fox-ontherun’ ruins between the subcity main intersections and subversive shopping center sign posts, beneath all the wire sags we were born into and grew towards—completely weird dream too spiritual, the essence inside them cracks of incenseNT #SKIDROW! varieties gathered, the candle fantasy creatures, the carved imaginations, the colored glass figurines bloomed ever-lasting; all that which seemed touchable at the broken entrance in the clear-light see-through teddy on a display; within, this presence of hologram stickers and crystal mirrored intercourse that neither he nor I knew yet, well…. then sucked the myths through.

PRESS PUNK COMPILATIONS in the bloody fantastic ooze of our heads, wailed in eardrums with electric guitar charges’ commotion, right mega inside the misunderstanding, poltergeist plague fuzziness and foggy sort of madness which began leaking in transfers of uninhibited minor seizures in equilibrium, oh yeah in the sense of raging separations that but remain inside that filtered swapping static mind falsely engorged by reflexive matters to keep awareness to the chords, to the desperate voice; to yet convertible speaking buzzed with bleeding ears and slits in exactly how fast I went to George, “you not g-going to just..” unleash thee Ohh the runs, eased, the splatters become soothing at the horizon which I’d never reach - a goosefleshed tunnel; the masses shifted and such, overwhelmed eyes admired the ghost of THIS unknowingly. Anyone say who I approached indirectly, through looks, the frayed patches of crackles when the plastic unraveled and GEoorge smack the CD in a radio on display, right there, full blast in a Kmart or wherever we anyway fixed, geeked, tweeked, cracked out and hyper intense, snorting, gulping, messing with my nose, tickles in several fidgets and itches, uncountable fingers while searching the jagged labels, rectangle stickered red round all the record label corners, the used CDs, plastic spines of the wriggling rage, gulped the designs, heart affixed there for a new supersonic toy behind the sliding plastic doors, a new thrill to push pwsh pwsh THIS further from the shivery nervous, into the foreseen forms. And my fogged reflection glare, weave between the cases and the infinitesimal raw sound ‘andIdontwannabehere-don’twanttostickaround’ which captured the essences, us, the perpetual world….. Yet it went soft; that place just pressed, rumbled my thighs, churned that canker-sore centered lumped or poked burn edged to my asshole; so I crouched down, still pondering a multitude of type, of fonts, digits, mini variations of expression, lines of poetry say—the sides, the layered scratches, the handwritten, the wasted rough etched scribbles behind the unclear sliding doors….the detailed sounds—which calm through the toils there at the tip of my penis….as I shoved my guts to hold the _ _ _ _ for a just a bit longer; before the energy crapped right on out, consumed a space of the unbearable eclipse.. #iswearyoullneverbe_lonelaaaaaaheyyyy

In the hands of a master

The violin cries

It sighs in sadness

It laughs with joy

It sings it dances

It prances

It screeches in pain

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© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.

Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent

and any written material is owned solely by the above named.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.

Printing or publishing is prohibited without seeking permission first from said owner.

doors close with every key i bend

under loathsome fingers flying 

pain morphed to catch the notes

lips burning up the room

with words unsung

strings snap like cage bars

strands of gold strangling the past

a peace in tempest 

born of fear and hate

Sometimes, the best things that could ever happen to you are just passers-by, that’s why we should never take anything for granted. God knew it was too late when I learned it.

All my life, I have been molded up to become a perfectionist, or in my case, someone that plays the note perfectly. My life has already been decided as I move my fingers over the keyboard. It was a fated harmony, without excitement nor a tinge of spice, gradually coming to an end. Somehow, deep inside, I have been begging for someone to help me feel what it was like to be human.

I walked straight in these tragic halls, yet even when the windows were free, I still felt suffocated. The people around me started whispering, their gazes full of pity. I grabbed my coat around me tightly, as if it were protection enough from their sight, but it wasn’t enough. It had been a year, but my heart was still bloody fountain, my eyes were showing a monochrome.

Inhaling the scent of the fresh dandelions that were perched near the windows, I cooped myself up in the corner, for the first time in my life I didn’t hold my head up high. My head ached from the memories. Our smiles, our laughter, my short period of rebellion, all of it. I couldn’t just bear to part it. Somehow, I wanted to wake him up and shout at him for leaving me, for letting me learn how to love, for teaching me how to feel!

My coach put a hand on my shoulder and helped me up slowly. She guided a hand on my back as we walked towards the registration center. My moms words were slurred, like my vision was a blur. I tried to point out what was wrong, but then I heard the music. Somewhere, in the corner where the instruments lay, I could see the bow, untouched, yet it glided through the strings. The music bothered me. It was Liebesleid’s Love’s Sorrow, the music sheet from last spring.

Last spring was the annual classical music competition that my country held. It was usually held in spring as spring symbolizes a new start of the seasons, and as they say, “What better way to start the year than through music?”

I have been attending it every year for 5 years as an undefeated champion ready to take my claim on the throne once again. But the judges were the Fates when it comes to capriciousness and had made a little twist which was grouping a pianist and a violinist. The pairings have already been decided, and I was with a guy, more like a newbie to be exact. My mother, my coaches, and every single person involved in my music life tried to change the judges’ minds. Yet, somewhere deep inside me thought, it’s what I had been hoping for, someone to help me in my robotic state.

The first day of practice was not what I expected it to be. At all. He was a rebellious, arrogant, I-don’t-care-what-you-think-about-me kind of person that was exactly the opposite of who I am. I kind of relaxed a little when he said that he knew how to play our piece, Liebesleid Love’s Sorrow, but then, I shouldn’t have been expecting him to follow the tempo.

He played with such intensity as if he was saying, “Look at me, look at what I have become,” that I couldn’t help but be angered. For me, music isn’t the place where you ought to find yourself. Music is something that has to be perfect, perfect tempo, perfect keys, perfect execution, perfect everything! It was like shaming the ones who had invented the piece if you play it with the wrong emotions. I told him just that, but before I could finish my lecture, he suddenly collapsed.

The next days had me visiting him in his hospital room, always greeted with his smile I had and still have come to lov-- get used to. It was finally a week when he had been discharged, yet the doctor told us not to be involved in an activity where he would be pouring his heart out, which means music was off-limits. So, during those days, hiding my revolutionary attitude from my mother and coaches, I spent all of my time in school with him. He was indeed my classmate, but let’s just say I’ve been too busy back then to notice. The newbie made my heart race, my smile never fade, my perfectionism never control me, and my life change. As I predicted, he was the one the deity had sent to fulfill my wish. But never had I asked myself, “Until when?”

He was hospitalized again a few days before the competition started. I had wondered, “Why was he in a hospital so frequently? I’ve only been in the hospital once in my life, let alone twice a month.” I was somehow worried, and something inside me stirred as I realized that I was slowly starting to care. Thankfully though, he was released again just before our performance.

That day when the competition arrived, we were the second to the last. My hands were sweaty and my brain started panicking. It was cursing me at how I hadn’t even practiced, though I knew that I had memorized the piece by heart, and just spent all my free time with some newbie. A dilemma started to form my head, but he noticed it. And as quick as it appeared, it went away with his kiss in my forehead. I was just there, hugging him, until our number was called.

I played the piano, he played the violin, but I noticed there was something off about his playing. It wasn’t what he showed me back then in our first day. Somehow, as he glided his bow through the strings, it actually was the song itself, Love’s Sorrow. Somehow, he was telling me a message. And somehow, I finally knew. This piece, this moment that we had together, it was indeed what the song had whispered. Love’s Sorrow. Somehow, to both of us, it meant that one way, or another, he would be leaving me.

Somehow, I realized it too late. The bow and violin stopped, and the piano next.

But what was the weirdest? The music had kept on playing.

Even until now, as I stayed there in the center of the room, suffocated and chained, replaying the memories, that music had kept on playing. The last reminder of him being gone.