art, Bach, Dionysus, music, Philosophy, Philosophy of Art, poetry, rhyme

Writers, Sopranos, and Blighters (A Poem)

Bach’s Mass in B Minor

Listen as my digits make a mockery of voice

The tunes unjust spells of dastardly idlewild hands

Monks and muses vaulting an onyx Balustrade rejoice

The hour high the soul upright the citizen a peacocked brigand

 

Tortured violinists strike the flautists with brandy soaked cat-o-nine-tails

I’d ordinarily stop the madness

But I am in the midst of a fugue paced like a snail

Though judging by the tenor of those moans the abuse brings them happiness

 

Pound out a piece or a proof

A malady

Something I can safely reprove

Just be sure by Abraham that it is not a melody

 

I am without God

A pity don’t you think?

Isn’t it odd

That without him to the depths of hell I’d sink?

 

I think I would rather embrace Satan

To know him is to love shame

Isn’t it just rotten

That the better art is made in his name?

 

Though I am not certain of its vintage

I’ll continue to wet my mouth

And attempt to presage

My future dreams with this sweetest of all Vermouths

 

Fortuna!

Music!

Luna!

Moonsick!

Annihilate

Such a worthy activity when one is dealing

With a reprobate

Begin a Gentleman’s fin de siecle with a pain well worth feeling

 

Do not wake me not ever

Liebestraum

My motto forever

Let me instead fall head first from the schlafbaum

Oeuvre

Achilles

Grendel

Euripides

Handel

 

Art and fury

Love discontent

Doleful flurry

Of the inspired who don’t repent

 

Ivanhoe

Baudelaire

Those in the know

See truths laid bare

 

Abounding

Rueful

And unforgiving

Each epoch has its hands full

 

With heroes

And writers

And sopranos

And blighters

 

 

 

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