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Anjelica Hatzialexandrou
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The Magic in the Sky Sees Lucifer Run

 

Anjelica Hatzialexandrou



I remember
The sky
Thick with Magic and
Dripping Darkness
Hanging onto the air
Who calls forth
The whirlwinds to
Spin a hurricane through.
It feels

A plague has entered
Swirling papers that indoctrinate religion,
Ripping them to pieces,

Throwing light into shadows cast.
What is this I see?
The box, that lay before me
Is one described in the stories,
A seemed to be wished-up nightmare
Of a locked-up spectacle.
Don't you see?
There is a tale behind this tiny keeper
The tale of a man and his monsters and now
Atop the hill there is not a soul
To be seen, But when the clouds whisper ill

He coughs up a sight,

Conjuring his souls.
The little ones are carried by droplets of rain
While the others,
Arrive with scorches of lightning
And he takes this box with ancient scripture
And throws it powerful enough to bloom into a colorful rapture.
When all colors come to a gliding halt
Peppermint tents appear,

Burning red gleams,
And white glisten

Beneath the pale silver moon.
With a snap of the ringmaster’s fingers

Fire lights his hands.
He shouts for the Wind

To send message of his spectacle.
The Wind grows louder,

Heeding to the master's command.
It's howl whistles through windows
Of children asleep in their beds
It sings the tale of the ringmaster’s circus
Allowing the dreams of candy
Cotton so soft and

Smile drawn lips curled on rosy cheeks
With eyes glaring at gleeful clowns,
And music, a melody sugary coated sweet.
Smiles spring wide upon the children’s faces
The ring master lifts his palm to the sky

And blows through his hand
So papers fly and dance about the flower beds,

Ring around trees
The ringmaster is pleased.

Morning creeps in

The high hums of the circus echo through town

While all gather in a line stretching down three
Streets to meet

The keepers of fun.
The ringmaster,

Top hat red

And blue hue

blackened boots shine spanking new

Looking like Uncle Sam,
Grins and with a flick of his hands

The peppermint curtains rise.
Dwarfs run balancing on wheels,

          Others dance clicking their heels.
In the corner people crowd to behold a man

Who eats man, an adult attraction
He feeds on blood and thrives on flesh,
A person who slips on leather skin to hide
True character behind fresh horror.
In the other corner

People crowd to point fingers in awe

Of the Girl with no Spine
With makeup drawn to her face,

So even when she frowns a smile still stays.
People know nothing of bone that once stood her frame,

Only see the skin that stretches

And the contorted shapes that give her no name

But a delectable claim to fame.
Yet the most respectable profession

Of the renowned sensation
Is the clown.         

They run in separate corners of the circus,

Giggling, wriggling, and tickling about

Muttering jokes of all sorts,
Keeping it clean for the kids, of course.

All the while

The Cyclops stares with one eye,

Two face glares with all four,

The strongman waits for more praise 

And over there
Townspeople gasp “Oh! My!”

At the lions and tigers and bears.

Through a thick fog, the ringmaster is seen,

Sitting, staring, glaring
With his eyes a stinging green

Lighting a way through the swirls of grey
A sight serene,

Seen with a spark of merriment,

But buried deep within his heart
A malign root grows and grows

So it pulls his skin until a gritty grin shows.
All of his performers gaze into his ghoulish eyes and nod their heads.
They stop their acts and come together.

The ringmaster floats slowly and waves his hands
A conductor, leading his band through their greatest performance yet.
The townspeople gather round

With that spark of excitement gleaming in their eyes.
The ringmaster is pleased,

So he dances and slides,         

Thriving on the people’s laughter.

But his bliss comes not from the merit of their smiles,

But the impending doom that sits on end.
Magic is thick,

Wending its way through the crowd.                                                                                           

             All of the performers take their places.

The Girl With no Spine twists and bends,

Cannibal yanks off his people’s mask

To reveal a deformed face,

Leaving the one that left his mother disgraced,

The Clowns blow balloons,

While the Strongman beats his fists to the ground

So the tiles ripple and burst the balloons.
Blood spurts and disperses through the air,

Splattering, rattling the crowd.
The ringmaster flickers a smile.
In the background Cyclops and Two Face play violins.

The sound screeches its way

Into the people’s ears and
Long thorn vines appear, they reach for miles

And work their way up the watchers,
Bind their limbs and grapple eyelids.       

The ringmaster screams,
Behold my wonders!
Behold your wonders!

 His performer’s yell,   

Watch them come alive,
See them thrive          

And revive their lives

Without their ringmaster!

They synchronize.
The ringmaster lowers his hand,

The performers look at him with glazed eyes.
Freaks! I am the one that took you in when the world rejected you! 

                      The Ringmaster cries
You are the one that held us in chains!

 Cannibal roars flinging his shackles,
You are not our master, just the demon that we feared!

 Girl with no Spine chimes
You are one of us!

The Clowns sing in harmony,
Monster! Two Face hisses,
Lucifer! Cyclops beams.
All performers step off their stages

And creepily crawl to the ringmaster

His hot rage cooled, collected horror.
He backs away as

The audience’s gasps trickle with small laughs and
The performers bring their faces to meet their rotten foe.

They lift his body drained from magic

And toss him through the crowd

Till the sky opens and swallows him up
Leaving behind a vortex of smoke

And fragments of the ringmaster’s box
Soaring with no spectacle.
All of the performers arise

From the darkness of the shadowed circus

                And step into the sunlight at the foot of the hill.        

                      Dusted with particles of the ringmaster’s

                            Aimless Magic,
They let their minds slip deeper

Into the promised land—
Stepping closer

Until they disappear

Into the warmth of the sun.
The vines loosen their grip and      

The townspeople march out,
Their eyes vexed with leftover magic and dark prints

Of the performers stuck to their eyelids
From the rays of the hot melting sun. 
                                                                                                                                                    

They return to their normal lives, still
Echoing high hums of the circus
That took place the day before
Hoping that what happened will be the tale of their town—
An ancient folklore

For the later generations to explore.
Still for now,
Atop the hill,

There is not a Soul to be seen
But when the wind howls

And the clouds

Draw in with swirls of grey,
And purple volts shoot from the sky
You can see the ringmaster etched in the soil

And intertwined in the blades of green
Upon that hill, tipping his hat—
Waiting for the rain to fall,
So he can come put on the greatest spectacle,

Enchanting to the core—

Crowds Cheering,

Performers Shrieking,

Lets See Lucifer

Run Once More!

 

 

Anjelica Hatzialexandrou is a poet and fiction writer from the Bronx with an affinity for horror and the macabre. She is currently attending Hunter College on the upper east side of Manhattan. Anjelica hopes to share her words with anyone willing to listen. 

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