He was a great composer and he wrote the Unfinished Symphony and the 9th Symphony and Ave Maria and he composed The Trout.
Come back to life soon... you know, like Jesus did.
Come back to life soon... you know, like Jesus did.
-Luke
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Dead Schubert
ReplyDeleteExclusive of fellowship these fellows avoid most fellows. Mentally addled they fled as worshippers into their once pure music because he did not find it or them yet. In the whole competition of his loving necessity, a woman with which to make our resource in it, never showed him how or up. Not knowing what it was anymore, a half dreamt honeymoon, a weathercock with honeycomb with which to make his resolution. He was with it, not you, whatever he forgot it meant once. He withdrew from his feminine mandarins after giving them everything, receiving novels with nothing in them in return but now forgotten. The submediant surprised him as ever. He would never get over it but to go home. He remained alone because he found no secret society for all his grieving. His broken down living room would have to bare witness in ecstasy when he gave it up in an undernourished undeveloped misshapen perfect song. “Too many ritardandos.” The critics with the doctors. They were right of course. How he stammered. Yet the limping cook with drooling mushroom soup’s scores a feast and will with brightness lighten lightness something up, withholding nothing from these imaginary reds like raspberries in endless sentences. Even white and unclean cream and creams seemed aware. Heating him up in his lesser muscular gut the serene wilting viola. A witless perfection, stooping shivering, unfinishing themselves in holy dregs. Underwitted sickly sweet cascades were un or under-hurried. Slow going. Andante. Palsied sainted psalming dunces with serenades and dumplings Dreamt up sweat stained onion gravy nocturnes taking cat naps on them too. Molding sofas under worked by brokenness all of a suddenly all sat up. Sipping solace from their one and only golden sacepan, with distant tympani still rumbling, still simmering, they stutter out the truth. Of course it's Schubert.
And you who have followed this melancholic essayist with Elysium's twisted plagiarisms, underdone, hold your souffle in your scarlet sweatshirt pocket so like him. You have not lost him now but won him. No loafer rubbing up against his sweet eagerness masters serving him or enters barley scented hallways immortal once without losing. All within him dropped against her opened corked or uncorked unkind wines drunk on or out of mind among the lettuces and winter squash at least once. Dark greens are never leaving. The bogey man must die before the gatekeepers of Bohemia’s oldest gold are allowed to be opened. No lobby mandolin player enters heaven now without the honeyed hams of immortality dripping light with flies.
He whom you mourn is now wandering among the worried mothered, blurring worthies chanting in purple imaginary Arabia on silver stilts. Crippled ever climbing paeans, finally free from debt or hard as frozen lard, dropped off drowsy, praying in scarlet thyme a green surrender, wheezing in perfect grief, locked up unassailable forever in slurring folds we slump. Return all you lonesome owing all and loathsome once up and comings going under now as then. No old lobby mandolinist sent for enters ever without the hams of immortality to square with first. First return your honeycombs, then distressed but composed underplay the rests. Molto ritardando. Rondo. The withered bargain bottom bomb you are must die inside before the witless golden pope explodes. Untruth’s under beautied goodness rotted out as sickly sweet erodes.
And whenever, during your lives, the imperfection of this practice overwhelms you while a bolt from this bold bespeckled worm commands to pour out broken glass eyed genius windows never minding ground blind glass being still unborn: remember this stupid seeming moon drenched houseboy with near tears of purest cream inside my ever blinking eye near blind: I was and we were there when they buried him, and when he died we wept!
from Misreading the Decalogue
by Christian Burden