"liszt" poems
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles
And she loves the Rolling Stones
She wakes up to David Bowie
And she dreams of the Ramones
She goes out to dance clubs nightly
Till her ear drums both get blown
But, she has a deep dark secret
That her friends will never know
At night when she is by herself
When the room is nice and dark
She slips beneath the covers
With Johann Sebastian Bach
She's a closet classic ******
And her name is Amber Clark
She just loves orchestral music
The rock and roll is just a lark
Her friends think something classical
Is something for your folks
They cannot play an instrument
They cannot read the notes
They think that chamber music is
What people play on boats
But she has a deep dark secret
She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote
At night when she is by herself
And her friends have gotten ******
She slips beneath the covers
And she listens to some Liszt
She listens to it many times
In case there's things she's missed
She's a closet classic ******
She has "Baroque" upon her wrist
She listens to the music
That her friends like to be cool
If she told them what she listens to
They'd laugh her out of school
So, when they go out clubbing
She will join them as a rule
But...ah that deep dark secret
This girl is no ones fool
She listens to Beethoven
And she knows each piece by heart
She knows where one bar ends
And another one will start
She can play most every instrument
And she knows most every part
She's a classic closet ******
But she still knows Boyce and Hart
She has cds in her library
And most sit there untouched
When her friends are gone they don't get played
She doesn't like them much
She would rather hear a symphony
By a composter who was Dutch
But there's that deep dark secret
And she won't use it a crutch
At night when she is warm in bed
She listens to Mozart
She needs a little Nacht Musique
To open up her heart
It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze
It hits her like a dart
She's a closet classic ******
And she keeps her worlds apart
By day she sings Bruce Springsteen
At night she listens to
Composers that her friends don't know
They're so old they're new
So she keeps her world a secret
For she knows what they would do
If they found she didn't know
Where were you in sixty two
But at night she is a ******
And she listens to Mozart
She needs that piece of music
To shoot an arrow through her heart
Eine Kleine Nachmusic
She conducts every part
She's our Closet Classic ******
shhh.....the song's about to start...
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
well it was the alternative to gregory isaac’s night nurse... but then the bouncer on the catwalk with flares... skidding up on a rhyme and cooling it with an edge of the appropriately cut fashion... chased it.
innit kamikaze (rap’s shortchange in shaken pears
for martini bond and chanced cockney slang in shakespeare,
all 90’s groove though)
lyric’o gangsters
in the mollusk slush
two’s up freed
with the sly sly s.o.s. sloth
chinning up to the chariots of nero’s double for portrait:
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa,
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa
(i miscounted... didn't i?) -
where kurt cobian’s yeah yeah yeah used to be
along with r.e.m.’s cowboy astronaut.
come mike jagger with me the liszt skeleton
of b & w’s worth of crescendos tipping lazy waitresses
with a toreador’s worth of breezy napkins folded, flapped and sneezed into -
i’ll be dumping my shadow into splits for extras to boot frying it in
the hiroshima of paparazzi’s blinking.
failures are worth other people’s success when playing the lyre to a burn out of capitals:
anyway, edinburgh is the ultimate cameo in the literary bloodline
begot by paris for the 20th century ultimatum of identity scripted.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Let's make these fingers play,
Across eighty-eight keys of wood and ebony,
In perfect, scale, rhythm and harmony.
Decipher the dots and dashes,
And break all the rules,
once you know all the clashes.
You could learn,
From the masters of this game,
Probably Beethoven,
Who played it with honesty and power;
Or Chopin,
Who played it with delicateness,
And poetry;
Or even Liszt,
Who played without hesitation,
And to woo women;
Or Rachmaninoff,
Who used his sizely hands,
To the fullest,
Using clean moves and precision.
There are many masters of this game,
But I promise,
It's the only game which will keep you,
Entertained.
Till the very end.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."
And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."
Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"
I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"
I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.
My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."
I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."
And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
A composer frans liszt
Came home from the inn quite piszt
That night he’d sung
On the top of his lungs
And pounded drums with his fistz
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
for Beau
this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head
that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,
I thank you suchly muchly
musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!
though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number
no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge
but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator
P.S. It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar
For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat
The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word
The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down
At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space
It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune
The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple
The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin
He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone
He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky
He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around
He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust
As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes
Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go
He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack
He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name
He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests
He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar
The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
by now you should have figured:
it's easier to satirise an everyday British
civilian with a radio,
than it is satirising a British politician
with a sense of rhetoric and
no Poker skills; instead viably
all cleavage with piquant punctuation,
zesty with a protruding ah...
an opera in glutton minor -
(never the colon preceding italicised
re-)
*meine land, meine land,
die land alle meine land
die land von Strauß -
die land von fett walküre -
gott ist tot: diät ist boren*.
it is easier to it's easier to satirise an everyday
British civilian with a radio,
than it is satirising a British politician
with anything than politics - as assured
with deciphering the enigma
or the British relations musicology speaking
relating to the continent with that
one favoured spy / messiah: Hændel - i.e.
the one admirer of Liszt that turned to terror tactics
and broke the pianist fingers in hope of the pianist
never wedging a Cuban cigar between middle and index;
love is such an oddity, it can make jealous men
love by hating into a choking joke.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
*I remembered
that day
I played the violin for you
and only you
as you closed your eyes
so tight to listen
you leaned on
the back of the chair
and you put
your arms on
the kitchen table
as I played Mozart,
your utmost favorite
with Paganini and Liszt
in between
and you smiled
for the first time
without worry for me
and that's the first
I have ever felt
that you needed me
you listened so soundly
until you fell asleep
and I smiled
as I watched you
in slumber
I played ever so lightly
to not wake you up
hoping these moments
last a bit longer*
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
i passed and looked at the oaks
on their foolish great peaks
to their great fairy tale words
to their unique skies
i walked around the apple trees
and rushed straight to the inspiration
i became a wind blowing away
from huge calves of fire and foxes
i passed near the oaks of mighty
and I took a couple of mushrooms and flowers
tomorrow i'll put them on my hat
put on my golden hat
because tomorrow i'm going to play on
pianoforte
and will sound among the oaks
and the cities of the franz liszt sound
25.07.18
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
My music i s me,
I am my music,
It reflects the kind of person I am
in music and in song,
I love The Carpenters, as well as Franz Liszt,
I love Gordon Lightfoot as well as Fredrick Chopin,
I love to sing and I love to dance,
It tells you who I really am.
My music is me,
I am my music,
It reflects the kind of person
I am music and song,
It will tell you if I am depressed,
If I am in love,
It will tell you if I am lonely,
or If I am moody,
I am my music and my music
is me and tells you all about me
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into
ornamental animal via botanical artist
wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist
wrought voila uber prestidigitatiously
head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed
miraculously via Te Deum divine fist ***
ping, whence realistic fauna burst alive
with an explosion of colorful twist and
shout of foliage, where scalloped super
flu us detritus manna for naturalist de
cid Jew us detritus capacious carpet boar
animation punk chew waiting groundswell
Liszt ghost would arise from the grave to pro
deuce magnum opus without a beat missed
such shrubbery mimicking the likeness, sans
glistening fleshy sin yew, and gist about ready
to become bone a fide (green behind the ears)
thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate crafts
man promised to imbue life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness whittling away leavings, thus did
exist the nascent then omnipresent visible entity
emerging from cocoon an herbalist meta morph
hosed from imagination of skilled, practiced and
mentalist conniver viz extracting the initially
obscure blessed beast, where with august magic
wielding tools of this specialty vis a vis bringing
breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest
dexterous chiseling blistering hands baffle on
lookers as coterie of topiary harvest breaths mind
bogglingly astoundingly authentic rooted ready
to frolic in the grass menagerie a gamesome group
of linkedin live progeny, the MichelAngelo of
dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid
ahs hid test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger
green hued key luster.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
i'm sorry, but it's true...
however rigid you might
find the need to confirm
a truth...
but even the great
piano composers
of the last century,
be that liszt, chopin,
satie, debussy, or schumann...
can't compete with
thomas newman's
score for american beauty,
i.e. any other name...
it's the pauses,
which act are stressors to
the whole composition...
we're surrounded by
so many sounds that are
trans-mammalian...
we've become
so accustomed to them,
that, as i once said:
the song of birds with due
end of spring: irritates me!
i'm sorry...
i'm sorry that poetry seems feeble
by way of imitating this
approach...
there are never to few
words to be said,
as said, regarding
someone's death:
i wish i said...
i wish i said
this...
i wish i said
this to him (her)...
poetry can fake this minimalism,
akin to the oriental haiku...
but that's beside the point...
don't fake it...
drown in your words as the last
breaths in the sea of narratives...
thomas newman transcended
the "masters" of piano...
i don't know how he managed
to overcome satie or debussy...
i'm scratching my head
thinking: huh?
he actually wrote a piano haiku!
perhaps that's a misnomer example,
but given the waterfall dynamic
to my writing, i have no interest
in using the correct word...
if the word i used was incorrect;
god, it takes so little...
to overpower so much,
say: overpowering the power
hierarchy that gave us pyramids...
why isn't there an aztec story
regarding those pyramids?
surely there must be something!
ah! after all... those pyramids weren't
tombs, dedicated toward a burial...
they were sites of capital punishment,
imposing sites,
enough... to warn
future transgressors of law...
these weren't tombs...
they were scaffolds of capital execution...
no wonder there was no jewish
stubbornness among the aztecs...
there was no divine intervention.
yeah yeah, i know, atheism is vogue...
but with atheism comes no art...
and why would art succumb
to a rational "argument" for its existence?
fair enough... no canvas, no paint,
no paint-strokes, no painting...
i hope you find a brick-wall more
entertaining.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
i find modern poetry so clingy,
so pronoun involved,
so pronoun cloaked
to create a bad-liar narrator,
i feel no sense of detachment
that's necessary for akin to
a painter a way of release:
to paint for nothing,
but in posthumous circumstance
sell for £100 million or be a
national gallery exhibit by
trafalgar sq. as a loan...
i could bemoan like a poet jealous
of liszt, as they say, with all the pretty ladies,
but i could also be like that solemn
crook of middle-aged women's libido
know by the name LI BE RA CE.
this modern poetry is almost like
a nightmare, clingy because written
by youth in youth, not youth encapsulated
by an ageing body, it's clingy, gooey suckling
its sick self to escape parasitic contamination;
its only depth is the number of bothersome flies
it attracts.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 6:35 AM UTC
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage,
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such
shrubbery mimicking likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast,
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly
authentic rooted ready to frolic in grass menagerie,
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
after the großartig composers...
there can only be
the great pianists...
you can do all you want
appreciating someone like
joe satriani:
but a guitar can never
become a piano:
none of that hushes suspense
of a piano soloist...
even a violin requires back-up
(akin to schindler's list
main theme)...
but... piano...
schumann,
satie,
debussy,
chopin,
liszt...
schubert...
campanella's
reinterpretation of wagner...
a piano can stand
alone,
and doesn't even,
remotely,
require the harangue
of an orchestra
(listen 'ere,
you uneducated swine -
sort of scenario)...
no opera...
but piano:
like... listening to the uniformity
of rain drops
falling onto a tin roof...
mind you:
i have to return
to the slaughterhouse music
of modernity
with its heavy influence
on stressing rhythm, drum...
as much as i do enjoy
the aloofness,
the ivory tower music...
i have to come down
to the horse-hooves
and buckles
of THUMP... THUMP...
as much as i appreciate it...
i can't be sat
next to these porcelain
aenemics for long...
from on high,
to from down below...
i need the current music
of the slaughterhouse.
- but only a piano can pierce
the silence...
and relieve something
akin to the royal albert
concern hall...
with an unanimous
revelation of...
that trembling
before the satiated
sound of: a sigh;
as if to confirm:
yes... you are alive.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 7:17 PM UTC
I am me let me be I like my solitude, music, and I am in incurable romantic living back in the turn of 20th century. I love ruffles, lace, Chopin, Liszt, and pearls and jasmine perfume. I like ballroom dancing and beautiful jewelry. This century is not for me. I love roses, soft music,and candle light dinners. I do not want to hear *** and love is all the same thing when I know it is not. I know there is my Romero out in there in 21st century somewhere. Tender,gentle, loving, compassionate, but I have not yet found him. He must be a poet, writer, and kind gentle soul. Old fashion as I am ans share my Catholic faith and accept me as I am and love me like I am.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Planning the last date
Similar to planning a funeral
Instead of ordering lilies
I plan on ordering kisses
How many are enough
I know I’ll cry
We can’t stay together
For fear of resentment
I don’t want to use empathy
Like the siren uses her song
Love must be organic
So I grieve
I’ll read Neruda until I get over you
I’ll play Liszt until I move on
But I’m afraid my eyes will tire
And my fingers will bleed
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
Franz Liszt's Years of Pilgrimage was playing at the back,
the music was beating as slow as death,
it had something special about the place,
a rather quiet but buzzing with unrequited feelings.
Nonchalantly was a nature of him,
to be pulling and pushing emotions back and forth,
but something was not always meant to be right,
nor it was always meant to be wrong.
Something was to be ignored and life moved on.
The ocean waves were washing down the beach,
they destroyed the sand castle of sorrow and despair.
Nothing to grief or figure about,
It was something new, fresh with scents.
The end of the saxophone solo snapped him out of it,
a sense of emptiness seemed to be draining out lately,
the void was filled with a gray tiring matter,
and it was nothing altogether.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
we have reached the era,
where music has reached
the status of scent -
music is so abundant,
so exponential,
that it equals the status
of perfumes -
the deconstruction of
the wind,
into the drum-kit construct
of rhythm,
the very african base for
rhythm,
it has created a plethora...
there is so music in the air,
that it's hard to keep up...
i see this as the first major
implosion of the pentagram...
i don't know what
sight is based upon,
but there can't be a plethora
of it... given some things
are visible, and other are
invisible...
this is the grand libra pivot
though:
how scent merged
with music,
to describe itself between
themselves...
classical music had
little rhythm in terms of drums,
and had little melody,
conquering the space
with liszt ior chopin technique...
modern music is much
about drums, and so little about
"melody";
well, in fact, it is far more melodic
than classical music...
for there is a base...
the more simple the music
the more melodic is its tact...
a **** or a slapstick moment
is always more funny
than elaborating the "joke"
into a witty anecdote...
by now we scent more "colours"
than actually see more,
the orange of mango,
the orange of a mandarin,
the yellow of a banana,
the yellow of a lemon,
the green of a cucumber,
the green of a watermelon...
thankful i am,
to be alive, when the plethora
of scent, congregates with
the explosion of music,
just what the white dude would
do, having exported africans
to america, and abandon
the winds, and take to drum
his right of being, against the earth.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC