“The art of singing is going, and it will only revert with the sole real music of the future: that of wonder”
Flowing from her is the disease of astonishment.
What fits, what flies, a flaming (good time)
Ash too needs downtime to capitalise
on badlands sturm und drang
Last year, we found the perfect summer pitch
The vision splendid, now with not a blade of grass
only shout outs to the scene just vanishing.
Boondoggle a five minute window of future calliopes
Just come out and say it;
how to divine higher air beyond the usual
singing or slinging match. From harmony to harpy,
her magpies cast southwards, the standard operatic farce.
Finalising plans under a cone of silence,
we fail to decide who remains chief of all muses.
You, me, or 99? Dead heat sopranos. Lyric coloratura
of the longer shadows. Listen again to the agile runs, the leaps
and patent trills. Bel canto maiden overs. Finding form
and taking flight, the long arm embrace of lost tradition:
I just called to say I love you.