perhaps this radio station doesn't play
the up-coming indie sensation,
die neusache...
    100.9FM... Kielce...
       and even i thought that a radio
station that only played classical music
in Poland was hard to find,
but of course i found PR2 (Dwójka)
at ~60FM...
              but back to 100.9FM...
   past 11 o'clock, through to 6 in the morning,
unadulterated musical continuum,
no adverts, just song after song...
perfected twinned to:
falling asleep wearing headphones...
somehow...
   no ticking clock, no barking dog,
no vacuum of wonder can settle a calm,
than this... perpetuated pulverisation
of sound...
   am i a millenial?
   hard to grasp the idea, listening
to the critique of those
starzy młodzi aged nearing 40...
the young who are the old...
even pensioners do not have such
a scolding beer jerky as the generation  
just prior to me hitting 18 in the year
2004...
          the young who are the old,
2 months time spent with pensioners
and suddenly the world is much
smaller, less bothersome,
    less: or rather more,
       akin to my appeal 20th regards
to the grand scheme of things,
summarised as vaguely as contested
in the word: r e a l i t y...
      vague ******* concept if you ask
me... FAMA radio... a constant stream
of music,  no adverts from
11 o'clock till 6 in the morning...
    even pensioners have enough
intelligence to not get into
generational warring...
   mind you, Chopin and Liszt are
all technique, an very little style...
diabolical indeed, technically worthy
of all those plagiarisms of reading score
and giving life, to a deaf man's gamble
off a page, trained monkeys, basically...
like the carpenter and
like the plumber... albeit with
more nuance of a useful trade...
   playing the piano is hardly a practicality
matter... unless, lounging,
bored, finding avenues to escape
popping balloons or eating Antoinette
cakes...
               all technique,
          but take for example style...
no one can tell me that there isn't
a whiff of Satie's Gymnopédie
                      in Thomas Newman's
amrican beauty soundtrack...
     i hear it as rarely pairing the two
as i cherish the scent of cherry blossom
in a spring night...
            or rather wine-cherry,
not the sweet kin'dt, but the sour genus...
which, via scent, is much sweeter
than the fruit...
           roses are without scent,
a gas explosion in an apartment...
   while violets are not worth the cliché couplet...
    for some reason,
the piano fell into the hands of
the French...
                   again, notably Debussy...
style, over technique...
                       i dwarf,  
                           a poem in hand
beneath an arch of concrete and zooming
traffic, i with a hyenna grin
and a coyote eye...
                                 come before the strawberry
picker, before the truck driver,
a punching bag of sorts...
              a "life" lived,
with only an investment in
    a life post scriptum
or rather posthumously...
          humour has it...
     the dead body speaks an alien
tongue of autopsy...
       dead yet alive...
                       alive yet dead...
          nature abhors vacuum,
so much so that god, as vacuum,
became naturue's plea
for man's possession of thought...
    deus est res vanum
  ergo **** est res cogitans...
so much thought by deity consumed
that man to retract
    his anathema for prayer
with the Enlightenment...
    lo, behold, a natural void...
of a dead, star, dead, yet not dead,
as a black hole...
                 i see fear in man
awaiting no luck in gamble on
death the first and last escape...
   take away the hour, the minute,
month year and leave but 1,
smooth transition, most notably
in the tupsy turvy spring and autumn,
away from mundane summer
and winter...
                love is a ***** of a word,
god as something too vague
and misnomer-prone...
             third thesaurus category...
synonym, antonym, misnomer (of)...
       politiksprechen,
jurisprudence outside of theory...
         it's still style over technique...
neither Chopin nor Liszt will ever
be adapted or translated into image...
breadth of fire, swirl of tornado,
diabolically elemental...
                      but the slow tortoise
foreplay of the French,
guillotine suspence...
             and then unlike some
mad woodpeckers smashing key
upon key...
              gently gliding to a ballerina
pose minus twirl,
akin to a falling oak leaf...
                         fear of the unknown
clung to death,
   or the fear of the known,
clinging to the abyss of history
                     and: no coliseum
or a pyramid of Giza to one's name?
            with no a priori
of this world at birth,
there cannot be an a posteriori
          of this world at death...
                  death will forever be, to me,
the unlearning of, falling asleep.