TAKE TWO: MUSIC
/ On the strings and through the tubes On the membranes, on the metal, Fueled by currents some, most not, Some have keys, some strange devices, Most or all demand for hands And some for feet, for extra features, All together yet unjoined, Terriblest cacophony, Terriblest a soundmix aching - Yet united and with plan, Was there heaven ever nearer? What's that beauty, what's that drive? Where do all these feelings come from? Is that normal, legal, right? Musorgasms can be felt Over over over here Come again again again again - Bliss now here the finest gift And truest form Of this religion Of the spirit
// Pan, your children have outgrown you Dionysos, your spirit lives And is so plentifully made A gift to all To all the senses All the people All in all A god-like thing this music is And god-like, we, can guide and make her - And god-like, we, can here and live her - Music is the finest form The finest gift And finest specter Finest way to us describe To make, what's abstract, clearer now, To make a fiction into fact To make, what's abstract, now concrete, ta-ta-taa-ram.
/// Poets make poems Photographers pictures As do painters Writers write Musicians make music Actors perform Dancers dance Architects build Weavers weave Makers make Make the thing And the thing makes you In return The music makes music And you are the music Made by the music That made you at all And before the music was Before there was no music was Nothing
// // What key shall it be? What rhythm to dance to? What instruments play? What style shall it follow, How loud can it be? More subtle? More pushing? Or quiet, a break? And pauses are music as well
// / // And down still the curtain, A red, Lynch-type feel, So wavering, silently, Calm from the outside, Boiling within - The blackest of lodges Could just be behind The darkest of dark Or brightest of bright So, eerie a music, Or peaceful it be?
/// /// The music will tell It always tells It always alarms Or puts us to hopes Yet sometimes, May lead it astray us, Deliberately, May it not, dear? And all seeming peaceful And all seeming quiet And all seeming nice And roses the theme, From all this enchanting, All hell might break loose.
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