Music
to Me is Like Days
|
Once
played to attentive faces
music
has broken its frame
its
bodice of always-weak laces
the
entirely promiscuous art
pours
out in public spaces
accompanying
everything, the selections
of
sex and war, the rejections.
To
jeans-wearers in zipped sporrans
it
transmits an ideal body
continuously
as theirs age. Warrens
of
plastic tiles and mesh throats
dispense
this aural money
this
sleek accountancy of notes
deep
feeling adrift from its feelers
thought
that means everything at once
like
a shrugging of cream shoulders
like
paintings hung on park mesh
sonore
doom soneer illy chesh
they
lost the off switch in my lifetime
the
world reverberates with Muzak
and
Prozac. As it doesn't with poe-zac
(I
did meet a Miss Universe named Verstak).
Music
to me is like days
I
rarely catch who composed them
if
one's sublime I think God
my
life-signs suspend. I nod
it's
like both Stilton and cure
from
on harpsichord-hum:
penicillium
-
then
I miss the Köchel number.
I
scarcely know whose performance
of
a limpid autumn noon is superior
I
gather timbre outranks rhumba.
I
often can't tell days apart
they
are the consumers, not me
in
my head collectables decay
I've
half-heard every piece of music
the
glorious big one with voice
the
gleaming instrumental one, so choice
the
hypnotic one like weed-smoke at a party
and
the muscular one of farty
cars
that goes Whudda Whudda
Whudda
like the compound oil heart
of
a warrior not of this planet. |
©
1998
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