I.
Trumpets, fanfare, pats on backs,
requirements are rather lax;
sectors, vectors, circumstance,
success is founded upon chance.
II.
All these old bald fellows in front of me are trying to appreciate the same orchestra as me, I suppose. No proof.
Fiscal, quarter note!
And it's all in 4/4.
White men watching black keys
ALL ABOOOOARD!
Let's keep this concerto together.
... but beef aside,
the music says 'atmosphere' and 'duration' to me
(I naturally look for nature metaphors, which I avoid.)
Bows like palisades rising in vibrating air
White keys watch black suits
And it's all in 4/4!
The pianist typing away furiously;
A, G, C, C, G, C, C, A, G, T?
Black suits on white hands playing black instrument
Black spots on white pages but only so I can discern
Sing for me, brown beautiful bowed blue-blood violins
Crystallize my sordid, searching spirit, liquid like viscous molasses, malformed like Jell-O, Sing!
Sing, bass and cello!
Lock and load the magic flutes with sixty-fourth notes, laden with history and chemicals, solidify me within some long-lost romanticism from back in junior year of high school.
Just tell me it won't be in 4/4, promise me.
..... ah, no, it's not that easy, like meets the ear or eye, black or white or black or white. Amidst the subdivisions, deeper than the theorymath can explain to me outright... there are my, my, my, my, my?
Our?
Landscapes! Ours.
So, between the extremes, I am content to be competent, to be cognisant, to compliment on a concerto well-played.
Complexity is not overrated, just misunderstood.
All my notes flow together and it is this quantifiable yet ungraspable musical dynamo of human experience that has made me so allwardly happy.
Red hair, brown violins, purple curtains, red walls, yellow lines.
We will return!!!
fin. for all of us, for now.
Trumpets, fanfare, pats on backs,
requirements are rather lax;
sectors, vectors, circumstance,
success is founded upon chance.
II.
All these old bald fellows in front of me are trying to appreciate the same orchestra as me, I suppose. No proof.
Fiscal, quarter note!
And it's all in 4/4.
White men watching black keys
ALL ABOOOOARD!
Let's keep this concerto together.
... but beef aside,
the music says 'atmosphere' and 'duration' to me
(I naturally look for nature metaphors, which I avoid.)
Bows like palisades rising in vibrating air
White keys watch black suits
And it's all in 4/4!
The pianist typing away furiously;
A, G, C, C, G, C, C, A, G, T?
Black suits on white hands playing black instrument
Black spots on white pages but only so I can discern
Sing for me, brown beautiful bowed blue-blood violins
Crystallize my sordid, searching spirit, liquid like viscous molasses, malformed like Jell-O, Sing!
Sing, bass and cello!
Lock and load the magic flutes with sixty-fourth notes, laden with history and chemicals, solidify me within some long-lost romanticism from back in junior year of high school.
Just tell me it won't be in 4/4, promise me.
..... ah, no, it's not that easy, like meets the ear or eye, black or white or black or white. Amidst the subdivisions, deeper than the theorymath can explain to me outright... there are my, my, my, my, my?
Our?
Landscapes! Ours.
So, between the extremes, I am content to be competent, to be cognisant, to compliment on a concerto well-played.
Complexity is not overrated, just misunderstood.
All my notes flow together and it is this quantifiable yet ungraspable musical dynamo of human experience that has made me so allwardly happy.
Red hair, brown violins, purple curtains, red walls, yellow lines.
We will return!!!
fin. for all of us, for now.
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