******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.

On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!

Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.

Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of  no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.

A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?

Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.

Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.

Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause

and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:

apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.

Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.

Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,

googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,

gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting  upon the weightless walls

to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.