You played me
the nastiest riff I’ve ever heard
your notes and my words
could blend in harmony.
Sondheim and Clapton
inter-fused with the
ebony and ivory
of you and me
we’d be but keys
chiming in this timeless sonata.
Haydn be praised!
Slapped bass is a small God in our eyes,
I am hypnotized-
and to our Surprise-
Symphony number ninety four
Movement number two
moves in you
stirring Something Deeper than an essence we don’t understand.
I am anything but composed,
shakes my root, rocking the
tree of us.
Scores rewritten and harmonies crushed to dust
all tame and mild.
Pop Culture is cosmetic
and love songs are out of style so
we recognize the plight of the composer.
We sympathize with our tortured souls
who can’t deal with this exposure
to one another,
our music clashing
on mountains of cigarette butts
in shotglasses everlasting-
The piano will always outlive the digital,
surpassing the modern proper,
String Quartets touch base
and Mozart has more to offer than simple genius.
An infectious inspiration far more sexual than consummation itself,
our minds combine,
our harmonies intertwine
and I beg it to Fuck itself
because if we grow any closer
there is no more You and I.
Strange melodies overlapping tell the story
of You and I.
It’s an epic poetry.
Love is ancient and classical,
we serenade this affection
and under appreciated.
Our song is never understood until the last few bars
I recognize the true plight of the composer:
I can only write what my ears hear,
deaf to your tones, and I fear mere hopes
won’t make you harmonize with me.
Your body seems to sympathize with me,
our physical symphony
reaches it’s crescendo
leaving a romantic dirge, passionate
but still pretend though….
I am sad in a very musical way. This is new.