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







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


My motto forever

Let me instead fall head first from the schlafbaum







Art and fury

Love discontent

Doleful flurry

Of the inspired who don’t repent




Those in the know

See truths laid bare




And unforgiving

Each epoch has its hands full


With heroes

And writers

And sopranos

And blighters





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