virgin Amadeus

the name of today's chaos is a shingle Amadeus. baton-esque, improvised, electric and shuttle. to have heard the melody of the singed oracle, clarinets and blood batons, made me think of the Commons. that one afternoon i held your hand, i am a virgin, you screamed. denying the existence of a bovine cosmos, you prayed to the weeds, and chased the swans, in turrets of smoke and bob-lilies, convulsing, as if in a dream, to the dramatics of German overtures. mozart smelled my piss, you said to me. we laughed, half-flirting, semi-aware of the alarm bells. but why Mozart? i asked. of the alcoholic savage and punishment. on the grounds of the arts, you punished yourself, undulating to the tremolos of the wind orchestra, the resonance of the strings, in denial of a modern death of the caricature of melody. footsteps to freedom, your composition of deaths, laminated in nutmeg, profuse in pebbles, we loved the sound of rain, the history of the dulcimer, the theory of minds. whistling a Paganini caprice, you would say, how's that soul? mourning, i would add -for you to depress into a pit of silence, blackness enmeshed in particles of sound, till you slit your mind, broke your dreams, created sex in photographs of iodine and sulfur, rabid, anthropomorphic and agile, and ran away to the ocean. never returned to collect your keys, petunia and my ring.