My piano! Like Satie I pressed you

Into sounds a moaning lover makes,

Where harmony needs only a sigh.

We had to talk to reach that place

Where: Talk, can you go?

Kissing makes no mistakes.

To kiss, talk must die.

Death of talk lived kindly in the face,

And everywhere below.

But pianos have to be bought

And conversations have to be made

With painful logic fraught,

Before the bright talk can stoop to the shade.

We’ll use less words tomorrow,

Breathing in a Renaissance painting,

In a scene that resembles porn,

In a plot without memory or sorrow,

Where composition is born.









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