the unknownable transforming point 6/ 10

433 little poems
fictive autobiographical gazing
through the piano looking glass

The piano moths

The piano moths disagreed with vacuum and smooth talking
don’t send me
open the lid and keep the move
window to the tail
and keys looking in
old lady soft bone mass
inside she was shivering the last chords
and outside the shadows at the window
paused luminously late
and torrent of minutely hourly
so much for that
crying out windows
which overlapped the time lines of decades
decoded crates and boxed

Please please soft page

Now would she like it delivered in one piece
no said she
I just survived the long boat trip from berlin with a poem
and I can’t go back
please please soft page cut up and move on
it’s historic nonsensibility
can only come from someone’s heart
the wood felt and fire of the box
humming to the schumann resonance
so so so inaudibility of the sudden
in sudden
left sudden
right up on my edge sudden motion
or
why are the interesting characteristics
looking so patiently at my shadow

The friday window

I can’t read the time where I am sitting
and the clock on the church spire
outside the friday piano window
must have the sun in my eyes
through window to the back of me
this move
why shift time when I only wanted to write
move hands move over the keys
bleat bell and lindy learning fast over the hammering key stop
hammering in her head
her soft head
page glow dark shark of a shadow
never really mastered the art of looking behind the screen

A bland barcarolle

So the other one she played for red dress
and sat
patient with the little pieces
looking on to the sea of plucked faces
and shiny best
hideous misconception about it all
monkey tricks
a bland barcarolle
next to nothing in there
but the fallen notes
off off switch this and off
and think of her in her diamonds
conducting and directing
little bites of tune full and empty to the grasp
the thread of pipey tunes
like sympho nymphonic pomegranate
move pen move it will tell

Lost loch

She can tell me what we were doing at inverary avenue
because lost loch it is now
words that never graded lost lindy lines
pages soft pedal to keep out
the screen on screen off
till disintegration and I can’t hear you anymore

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Author: LindyK

Composer/ Pianist/ Writer www.virginiaaurorascott.co.uk

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