Piano Sonata No. 8 in A minor, K.310


I: Allegro maestoso

Art is the oxygen which remains in the body of a drowned swan
or a strangled woman, as the pleasure we pretend to take mingles with
the pleasure which is not only taken, but has been running laps
of one’s only slightly conscious heart, sighing on its pillow in A minor,
since childhood, and adores us even more now, in our underwear on the square
of purple sunlight that falls through the window onto the bed
from the whistling trolleys and birds on the piazza.
We are reading books that are better than sex, but having
sex anyway, because it is a very, very good idea.
Our heart halt with caution before entering the egg-smelling
Chinese church, where the lone monk, who symbolises
the Holy Ghost, recalls scenes from our childhood
through hot tears, and without doing anything with his hands
puts one hand on one shoulder and the other on the other.

II: Andante cantabile con espressione

The stars’ summerhouses are thrown open, above the sea-yearning
streams and hawthorns of the public garden, which is murmuring with angels
who all want to get to know you, who laugh at all your jokes
all of which, they say, are very good. Wine with more bubbles than
liquid silently explodes, and you and the angels drink much better wine
from chilled glasses. You cannot shake the feeling you are being
painted by an artist who leaves no visible brushstrokes,
who caresses, through the body, the soul, even more than the soft
hands of the angels’ conversation. The realisation that this
is all taking place on the back of a dragon disguised as grass
does nothing to interfere with your nostrils’ week-long orgasm
which has been arriving on the scentless breath of the sharp roses
in this otherwise heavily perfumed nebula. You have a holy heart attack
as you watch a ballerina manage to do something very odd on the stairs.

III: Presto

Where did these snails get so much energy?
They are bounding all over the place like lemurs
at a circus. A triangle player enters the room,
listens to the snails playing Lipatti’s 1951 recording of the Presto,
and learns nothing from it. You dunk your hair
in my face, in my eyes, my mouth, my neck,
and say ‘Is this what you want? Is this how you like it?’
‘Of course, of course it is, of course.’ I say. ‘Why
are you distressed then?’ you say. ‘The snails!’ I cry. ‘These
goddamn snails! What an absolute day-spoiler!’
So we decide to get out there, go down the canal,
watch the new criminals enter the prison in cage boats,
watch the old ones escaping in hollowed-out vending machines,
and chew gum and talk to each other.

(played by Dinu Lipatti)

by Col. Baldwüllz

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