Avery Cahill has worn many hats in his life, from working at a cheese factory to Lecturer of Classics. He’s lived in Japan, Italy and Norway, but currently awaits the End Of Time while waging a losing war against fire ants in Florida. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop, and his fiction has appeared in Dog Oil Press and Innsmouth Free Press. Tweeting as Falcifer9000 or blogging at scythe-bearing chariot in the 2D world, he shouts into the meaningless void.

This song is not for you.

The golden pipes sound

Flat fifths on alien scales

Around the all-consuming sun.

A black sun.

Their notes are not for you.

He is pleased.

His writhing, festering pleasure

Strikes a ten-dimensional cord.

He consumes himself,

Excretes himself.

Weaves space, weaves time.

A star. Galaxies. Light.

These endless forms are not for you.


The pitch shifts.

The dance pauses,

And in the rests between

That awful melody,

In the emptiness,

In the void,

In the inhalation before the note,


On dust, you stand

And laugh, and sing

And lust, and cry,

And slay and rut.

And build your cities,

And fight your wars,

And gaze longingly into the void.

A great, sordid emptiness

In the song that is not for you.

The screaming ant

Clamps a morsel,

Dragging it home along

A hormone leash.

Your blood burns.

The sun is warm.

The sky blue and cool.

You know with a vengeance that

I am I.

Yet, this song is not for you.


A voice in the centre,

The very centre,

Away and down,

Deep, deep down,

Infinitely far away.

The black sun answers the trilling pipes.

The pipes fall silent.

The strings relax.

The terrible dance winds down.

Galaxies rip.

Stars fade.

The eve of atoms has come.

Quivering in entropic ecstasy,

The song is done.


You follow in the wind,

wherever the played note goes,

a node on a silent string.

None of it was for you.