Hammers bonk down on an bus-sized mango,
freshly existent in the village square. Its landing cleared leaves
and it is clearly (because big) a supernatural mango.
It has made a crater, and has distracted us from the festival
of virility, from the skimpily clad young bombardiers
tickling each other with incessant fulfilment, sucking milk-
based lollies, and sperming all over the local B&Bs.
Everyone is too busy staring at this mango,
or hitting it, as it eyes our delicious customs
like a Protestant, to see themselves. Though one still sees
the armpit, the rib lines in the under-breast flesh of the girl
with the raised arm, and the throng of flowereverythinged
boys, bodies stashed with bullblood roaring
for that quilt of girl-quash, the mango is vision itself.
We are in a ferry and there are happy seals hopping on the water.
They are honking mutely, but we can sense the full force of their honks.
Birds keep landing in our cocktail glasses – (we drink cucumber
cocktails) – but that is okay; they are clean birds.
The world, the air, everyone, is a single dog-shaped, dog-sized animal
trying, not unnecessarily hard, to attract a mate.
Comets bicycle on the sky like a skatepark – it is noon –
and minor skirmishes in peaceful C18 war re-enactments
are lain aside for lakeside chess. We ask the waiter
to tell us the history of the area in his own provincial language:
‘This ‘ere place ha’ been identified as an area o’ incredible beauteh
by everyone ‘oo ‘as ever bin alive from t’ moment life began
to now. Nowt is here. Do you agree?’
‘Oh waiter!’ we cry. ‘Oh, of course! Of course we agree!’
III: Molto allegro
A sad staircase with clashing knickknacks poured
down its steps helps us remember, as we put on our gloves in the porch
and tie our trousers together, that only what’s like the Madonna
and the skies of the following countries: – Italy, England,
and Japan – provide art with an apt number of fingers
to go fiddling with the simultaneously literal and metaphorical
knot which it knows it must strengthen without interfering
with the prospect of future strengthenings.
In other words, if the aim of art is to clench, art much clench
in a way as loose as a falling leaf, unless the artist decides
their destiny, which unfortunately involves getting out of bed, is to kill
art on the way out the building, as Beethoven did,
and which Mozart, who gave art its fattest, silliest, wettest
kisses of life – (most of them not on the lips) – would cry about forever.
(played by Piotr Anderszewski)
by Col. Badwüllz