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By Ali Date: 2007 Oct 08 Comment on this Work [[2007.10.08.10.52.10255]] |
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I look at it, objectively, like a piano that’s out of tune, like you can’t find the notes anymore, and so you select a different song, but your passionately haphazard playing breaks more than just glass— too bad it’s not my problem, too bad it’s not my song, too bad you couldn’t forget the music in my thighs—my eyes are forever searching yours, and this third fugue flits around reasons, flirts in naked arrangements, and I concentrate on notes that aren’t mine— but the Other, she plays a dead song on a water-warped piano, and my sheets and streets and suddenly enticing starlight, there you go right when you go wrong. And it’s seductive, really, the way you make music deliberately, on a delicate incline, and then roughly— as if you can’t hold back, as if you can’t bear to slow down, gripped and gripping the bidding of a swelling crescendo, and vibrantly, and visciously, as if written that way, my music is yours, the notes in your mouth, under your hand, they are complete, only ever breaking, breaking, breaking, breaking— at your deft fingertip’s command. |