Centenary 250
(Feb 10/06)
An exegeses on exegeses’, a theory on praxis’, prodigal lacuna’s. The Pieta brings a weep to my eye, scabbard-hard calluses and chisel stabs. Gods’ only know the amnesty of the praxis, of the theory, of the exegeses, fit for a Saul or a Lot, or the treble-maker Wolfgang A. M., Spinnerets Savant, the Solemn of Gomorrah, the sylph of dryads, the messianic miscreant full of warm oily flatulence. I could give a dog’s ass about Mozart, or his 250-year benefaction, sad fucking cunt, a mouthful of bonbons and an infuriatingly vexing cackle. Lime-abscessed and roiling round in his own fecal soiling, sad pathetic cunt, nary a harpsichord or a piano to piss in. Fiddler crabs and the Magic Fluke and Don Eremite’s pensile-thin moustache, and that damnably annoying symphony with oboes and Frenchy horns, the horror, the fucking horror. I attended a Mozart Opera, Don Giovanni, at the NAG some years ago, besotted on grape-milt and potato skin vodka, haberdashed in an ill-fitting suet of black serge, and was the last of my troupe to fall willy-nilly to sleep. Amide a pox of rich fucks, not a Lacanian purloined letter to be seen. Troubled as he was, the wee prodigal savant was an annoying Viennese pipsqueak with an equally annoying habit of making mountains out of volehills. Happy 250 birthday you crapulous little shit.
An exegeses on exegeses’, a theory on praxis’, prodigal lacuna’s. The Pieta brings a weep to my eye, scabbard-hard calluses and chisel stabs. Gods’ only know the amnesty of the praxis, of the theory, of the exegeses, fit for a Saul or a Lot, or the treble-maker Wolfgang A. M., Spinnerets Savant, the Solemn of Gomorrah, the sylph of dryads, the messianic miscreant full of warm oily flatulence. I could give a dog’s ass about Mozart, or his 250-year benefaction, sad fucking cunt, a mouthful of bonbons and an infuriatingly vexing cackle. Lime-abscessed and roiling round in his own fecal soiling, sad pathetic cunt, nary a harpsichord or a piano to piss in. Fiddler crabs and the Magic Fluke and Don Eremite’s pensile-thin moustache, and that damnably annoying symphony with oboes and Frenchy horns, the horror, the fucking horror. I attended a Mozart Opera, Don Giovanni, at the NAG some years ago, besotted on grape-milt and potato skin vodka, haberdashed in an ill-fitting suet of black serge, and was the last of my troupe to fall willy-nilly to sleep. Amide a pox of rich fucks, not a Lacanian purloined letter to be seen. Troubled as he was, the wee prodigal savant was an annoying Viennese pipsqueak with an equally annoying habit of making mountains out of volehills. Happy 250 birthday you crapulous little shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment