The solid, spread out ink

of the wired octopus on the polished

wooden floor, scuffed in places

where four by four

tables, holding sauces

and drinks during the day,

allows the musician

to reach the audience and keep

them spellbound.

 

The octopus never loses shape nor sleep,

wide awake, alert and fussy over the music

it hears silently, the only clue to the beat

being played is the pulse and the energy

that courses through its thin frame

and two jacked hearts, hyperactive

when the switch is pulled, still, coiled, breath-less

and no eyes blinking till the time

when the energy snaps its electric fingers;

the musician’s delight is the hungry

and the octopus devours and feeds

with equal sincere measure,

bite for bite.

 

I watch the octopus on the floor,

black silky ink, pulsing like an alien

under water, in the deep,

unfathomable, unapproachable,

the bringer of life, thin, starving,

yet pushing the musician onwards,

the octopus of expression

is such that it makes the holder

a god to be worshiped, the black

tentacles of the octopus wield such power.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016