Piano Concerto No.25 in C, K.503

I: Allegro

The heart is a sponge, sopping the rosewater of reminisced youth,
dwarfed in a frail, demented ocean of exhaustion and bones. It chews the sour
bread of a decadecreased skin, the wine of spilled years, kisses the brash arms
of a brainfisted baker, as he thumps the dough with tears of joy. The quails
hurl melody from the walled garden, where apple trees cling unto the air
as if unto another earth. The tiptoes of mammalian shellfish on the cabbage
patches, remind us of camels on ice,
or the doorknob of a bullet-chewed soul
caught in the crossfire of ideal beauty and a single juvenile leaf. The flag
of earth is indivisible, invisible, and attached to the ankles of the girl
that glows on the stairs in a pool of illogical paragraphs, which from her half- formed,
half-unformed body, flow onto the patio, where each snowflake is a
star, and the holy spell in children’s spit wilts the world like a green dawn,
turns on the fountain, and co-exists with its opposites, in triumphal bliss.

II: Andante

She walks through the curtain – literally through it. No vein
in these raw teenage wrists, fails to sing its throat dry. She is the sentence
after which one cannot not go on adoring adoration, the tomb
of the overcast sky. Her teeth are goddamn good teeth. Her smile
is the goddamn clarion call which jolts the hiccupping universe into a trance
of tulipsasabsolutelyeverywhereasabsoluteromanceofromanriversflowswest-
pastinpurewonderandwoewonderinelmsinairinthegazeofeverywhereseeing-
gardeneyes. Her friends are friendly backpackers with incredibly
sophisticated names. She embodies the charm of something slowing
down forever, a bit like the universe. Only not onto that cold mattress
of simultaneously evanescent and ceaseless horror we’ve all apparently
acclimatised ourselves to, ignoring, I suppose, the back pain and the fevers.
No, she reminds one of the gentle breathing of a much smaller universe’s
tummy: a universe that will die, yes, but die like we die – alive.

III: Allegretto

Here’s the sanctuary where all that’s unsanctified’s sanctified, washed
in wishes which hurtle like cannonballs from golden galleons, skipping
over the surface of the infinite sea into a much bluer, much more infinite sea.
The tokens of heavencallers are littered all over the mantleplace. There is lipstick
on the glass, a beautiful groove in the bed. Joy swims inside the bowels
of the mirror, which recently reflected a wise and gorgeous pair of eyes.
There is no Libyan summer so hot, no Syrian shrine so sacred, to suffer
these glimmering permanencies to waste a smidgen of their ceiling-stacked and
seething energy. No hourglass runs slow enough, no song waxes with enough
sufferlust, to diminish the sheer edification that glows like a ship on my
consciousness’s roaring water. The swallows canoodle, the apple-
pickers sing their psalms, the wheelbarrows eek over multicoloured soil,
and the clouds sink, like words into the guts of the poets, into the horizon,
where they sleep in excessively untender bliss, forever and ever and ever.

(played by Martha Argerich)

by Col. Baldwüllz

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