Sunday, 20 December 2015

Ludwig's Bust ( A meditation from January 2015)

Ludwig’s Bust
(A meditation from January 2015)


Ludwig’s bust
makes me feel at home,
we’re talking Eddie Izzard
and the transgressive,
talking Beethoven
and annoying ‘River Rats’
as you call them 
jet skiing, littering, boozing
and fighting, destroying
the natural beauty
of this ancient dream time land.

We drink coffee and lose ourselves
in Romantic movements
Chopin and Beethoven,
and our disdain for Wagner
and Lloyd Webber…

My recent history is a concern
for both of us,
too much baggage
under my eyes,
my heart
and soul in a cage,
never allowing
it to be opened again,

In your drawing room,
meditation and crystals
psychic healing, doesn’t
do the trick this time.

We move to the music room,
all your kids, all your students
paraded on the wall, how wondrous.
An artist with no darkness.
only light and joy.

Surely, this is a dream.
We seduce each other
with the most bizarre foreplay

I’ve ever seen,
we alternate between
the upright and the grand.
making shit out of our heads,
me counter-pointing to your 
variations of Tori Amos
and I can’t help but to let
my fingers wander into Jazz
 and Chicago chords.


You start playing a highlights package
Beethoven sonatas—not that flowery Mozart
crap!  But passion, sex, desire, 
sorrow and transcendence

Moonlight suddenly becomes
Appassionata and then the
most painful and passionate
sexy and daring of them all,
the Kreutzer—why do I feel
like I’m Leo Tolstoy right now?

We talk of Pyotr Ilyich
you smile and take it all in,
just like she used to do,
talking of the only memory
of my father, at the Golden Twin,
playing the 1812 on his Yamaha FX20
with canon FX and a 1980’s light show.

Why does the Keyboard
keep stalking me?
You’re a piano teacher like my dad
and my sister,
and prodigy like my dad
and a like her ex’s dad, 
G-d has a sick and twisted
game, I still have to play.

The coffee’s run out,
you brew some more 
properly.

You let me go crazy
on your full size deep red wood
grand. I haven’t touched
real ivory in so long.


Tentatively, I begin my own variations
a Faure and Dvorak mash-up,

Pavane meets the 9th Symphony 
a courtly dance, with a Negro spiritual.
I keep maintaining that I can’t play,
I just make it look like I know what
I’m doing. And then the love affair begins
again.

From the kitchen you seem impressed,
calling me the name she used to,
only a few ever had, “Wow Red Wolf”.

Ludwig’s bust is pushing me on further. 
I close my eyes and like the layers of 
my sins, my heartache, 
my sorrow and my pride
drift away through my fingers.

I start in E minor,
why do I always start
in that mournful 
soulful key.  

Just baby steps,
it’s been too long since
I sat back straight
feet on the floor,
hands at middle C.

You call from behind me
I almost jump out of my skin,


“I didn’t know Bela Bartok was
in my house? What’s that you’re
playing?”


“I have no idea. I can never remember
what I play. It’s almost like a trance”.



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