"garnishing" poems - Hello Poetry

I like hearing you talk about Mozart Because it means you’re listening. His piano keys are no different from mine. I like hearing you talk about Mozart. I used to play his pieces before I sleep. His arpeggio is my lullaby; His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune My keys. There’s no denying that you like Mozart; Never mind his spending habit. I sometimes think you are Mozart. I think Beethoven was fad gone true because He was deaf to his laughter, And Schubert was too old, too young to remember How to step on the pedals While he tried his many operas On his baby grand piano. I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams, On the toilet, while eating. I think of Mozart and his young son And the requiem he stood dying to finish. Mozart became a One night stand, and I am not proud of that. I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe Mozart had something to do with that. I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit, And maybe Mozart had something to do with that. I wrote a story once, About a starving artist; Maybe he was the force behind that. I filled my library with fiction, And fiction became a running schedule for me. Maybe Mozart had something to do with that. I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach; I don’t think Mozart knew that. But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade, And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder. I knew Mozart would not like that. And it was holy. We are holy. He was holy. Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy. Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich. Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience. Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing. Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner. His flute promised a princess to remain priceless. Mozart was holier than Salieri. Mozart knew better than Salieri. Mozart played better than Salieri, And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said, **** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey. **** this court. **** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play. **** Austria. **** Vienna. **** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket. **** this requiem and this boy, This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll. **** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.” I saw Mozart once. He waved at me. I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart. And I like hearing you talk about Mozart Than Mozart talking about Himself.

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Apr 20, 2012

Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC

joyce-garcia

I Like Hearing You Talk About Mozart

I like hearing you talk about Mozart Because it means you’re listening. His piano keys are no different from mine. I like hearing you talk about Mozart. I used to play his pieces before I sleep. His arpeggio is my lullaby; His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune My keys. There’s no denying that you like Mozart; Never mind his spending habit. I sometimes think you are Mozart. I think Beethoven was fad gone true because He was deaf to his laughter, And Schubert was too old, too young to remember How to step on the pedals While he tried his many operas On his baby grand piano. I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams, On the toilet, while eating. I think of Mozart and his young son And the requiem he stood dying to finish. Mozart became a One night stand, and I am not proud of that. I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe Mozart had something to do with that. I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit, And maybe Mozart had something to do with that. I wrote a story once, About a starving artist; Maybe he was the force behind that. I filled my library with fiction, And fiction became a running schedule for me. Maybe Mozart had something to do with that. I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach; I don’t think Mozart knew that. But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade, And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder. I knew Mozart would not like that. And it was holy. We are holy. He was holy. Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy. Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich. Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience. Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing. Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner. His flute promised a princess to remain priceless. Mozart was holier than Salieri. Mozart knew better than Salieri. Mozart played better than Salieri, And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said, **** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey. **** this court. **** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play. **** Austria. **** Vienna. **** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket. **** this requiem and this boy, This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll. **** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.” I saw Mozart once. He waved at me. I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart. And I like hearing you talk about Mozart Than Mozart talking about Himself.