Skull Music

By: Carsten Czarnecki

the black hut stands silent

stands silent on the edge of town

there among the trees

where the road ends

the black god enters

with creak of hinge

throws open wide the door

throws off his coat of bloodied buckskin

throws off his hunting instruments

throws off his evening's kill & sits there

sits there silent

as his players watch him

three hooded players

sitting like three blackbirds on a branch

& watch him who with the sharp end of his iron

picks his teeth

chews something & picks

the black god spits

he spits in the dark

& when he spits the players rise

a row of three taking three puffs of smoke

& hold it in

then start the spinning

floorboards creaking under nimble feet

& the boys spinning

spinning till their heads are good & drunk

that's how the music gets in

there go the drums then

two drums beating like the blackbird's heart

& between them the chief player

drives a stick of knotted wood into the floor he hits the floor

hits it so hard the boards ring out

ring out in rhythm to the beating of the drums ring out

with the sound of baying dogs

with the sound of rocks tumbling down the mountain

with the sound of a razor run across a leather strap

with the sound of bat wings clapping

& the forest clapping back

with the sound of clavicles snapping like twigs

with the sound of fat crackling over fire

with the sound of a fool's last gasp caught in his throat

with the sound of housewives screaming

& the sound of husbands wheezing in the dark

with the sound of blackbirds breeding

with the sound of corn husks shucked all day

with the sound of bonesaw, chisel & stone at work upon the sick man's jaw

with the sound of a gunshot

& the flap of birds fleeing the tree

with the sound of the blacksmith's hammer

with the sound of sweat drops sizzling on hot stone

with the sound of a machete splitting coconuts

with the sound of a machete splitting heads

with the sound of gurgling streams

with the sound of a shaman's gurgling throat when lost in trance

with the sound of virgins moaning

with the sound of a guitarist plucking at a single string

with the sound of salmon splashing

with the sound of salmon ripped apart by claws

the black hut rings out

rings out on the edge of town

there among the trees

where the road ends

---

Carsten Czarnecki was born and raised in Munich, Germany, to Polish immigrant parents. He spent his formative years in Los Angeles where he attended L.A. City College and worked a variety of odd day-jobs, fighting every day to keep poetry alive in an increasingly bloodless world. He has now settled just outside Malaga, in the heart of Andalusia (Spain), a land that still quivers with spirit.

His poetry was featured in The Dewdrop, The Closed Eye Open, Cathexis Northwest Press, Turtle Island Poetry and Keeping the Flame Alive.

His chapbook collection “Skull Music” will be published by UnCollected Press in late 2026.