Mozart, as the easy way out...
to be honest, it's not that it's not that
great... and not because
I'm hardly a snob...
but I'm also hardly a pleb...
but necrophilic sycophancy goes like
this...
a dozen leeches...
stuck to a tapeworm...
    to the current man...
  an eclipse of the genius dawns...
minor composers,
those entrenched in movies...
         a dozen leeches strapped
to a tapeworm,
sycophancy post scriptum...
         which means: the worst kind...
came I with anonymous,
not the subjective I
but the objective I...
    counterfeit strings and
puppeteer, be it closer to sigma
than a soul and... puff...
a damp thing exploding...
like a Pavlov man's eye
drooled off the salivating canine
tip of tongue...
zest, or anticipation of lemon...
or rather a naked corpulance
one might ******* to
appreciate the ***** tasks
of 18th century, woman...
              no go zones are:
Mozart, slums of Vienna...
Malmo, slums of Schveeden...
     every time i hear
an ode to someone dead,
I sometimes think about the ode
as: and may he remain so,
may he remain as dead and dedicated
to no second example akin, ever...
but then again this
necrophilic sycophancy has
a natural utilisation for
the onlooker...
namely the modern concept of
fame...
            if there can be
an art for "art's sake"...
   why can't other areas
be allowed a per se...
an the absurd jack-in-a-box?
******* seems like
a morbid inversion of shying
away from, what becomes of
a woman... the blossoming of
biological mechanisation in
retreat of, the hidden hybrid
manifest in youth...
just a thought...
as ever,  surprised...
beer in hand, a man in middle
age walking door to door giving
out leaflets... suddenly a door
opens and a foot emerges
kicking him in the face...
the sight of...
a ******* rehabilitation
programme...
funny...
              there is no,
rehabilitation programme...
not when there's mob rule...
akin to this spectcle...
imagine, walking down a street,
a man is walking ahead of you,
knocks on a door, and receives
a ******* kick to the head...
******* or no *******...
******* stood his ground
like a copper statue of Joseph...
in Stalingrad.