Concerto for 2 Pianos and Orchestra (No.10) in E flat, K.365

I: Allegro

Parrots swoop into what I’m sure you’ll agree is the apogee
of what we means when we say ‘Georgian Landscape Gardening’
with a hint of tropical juice on their breath, till CLANG!!! ‘Hello dollies!
My name is Shangle Wishclod. I am here to pour several small marbles
into your Porsche’s engines on the auspices of divinity. What a peacan
I chew!’ Curtains of living ecstasy dangle from the clouds and spill
fishflowers of globular lilt onto the grass. ‘There is a pepper-dingle
round here somewhere.’ Shangle Wishcold goes on, ‘I just know it!’
Meanwhile ladies lips dribble, the watering cans exist, flowerbeds too,
steps too, and watersheep pootle about. ‘Bubbles ought to be called bibbles
while I, Shangle Wishclod am about. And all lovers ought to call
one another Weeby. We all ought to take one another by the bill
and bulk our sunnyday bellies with pellets.’ Shangle Wishclod
bounds over a rockpool, either to escape us, or to ride some animal.

II: Andante

The Pirates become humanitarian aid workers as the angels emerge
in rosy windswirls and ride the glorious escalator from the soles of the
clouds to the tops of brown buildings, where they make balloons
shinier and make TV satellites show better Television. A woman
in an apron steps into a puddle, remains in it, watches 2 children
playing cowboys, and listens to an angel whistling. As Böhm realises
the single wind note is bearable only by admitting it is unbearable
the cupboard opens and all the clothes, standing in cubic piles,
affirm the sky in its mission. Clashing claws of kittens give rise
to a sparkling river, which gives way to a hypothetical planet, detailed
with skyscrapers, geology, and elective cycles, whose only business
is giving, digging deep into the pockets what is done on globes
and laying it all out, dust and all, in a grasspile beside us, near
where steam-powered cars whine on the banks of the Wharf.

III: Rondeau. Allegro

Women with 4ft throbbing wigs bounce like bunnies
into the ballroom where all the men are fumbling
with keys to the women’s brassieres. Though comedy
is what is aimed at, something more akin to science
is what is got. A regal god incarnate in a black squirrel
bounds from the branch of a sycamore through the semi-
cylindrical window and scampers under the loitering feet
across smooth flooring to the conductor’s podium where,
addressing the room, it asks the following questions:
‘Who are we and where would we be without the water
of gentility by which Shangle Wishclod anointed our heads?
I see in your eyes – some of you have forgotten him. Where
would our proud and aggressively pleasant rituals be
were there not our old stone bridges corroded in beams of light?’

(played by Emil and Elena Gilels)

by Col. Baldwüllz

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