a metaphor for sorting met with force of sorts
violence and love matriculate bars, tempos, lessons, lesions and doves

an opera of metaphors, there falls a pencil on the sand-ridden wooden stage, ergo faints an earthworm when brushed over onto the cobblestones, back there through that door, there where word mills a’ churn’n of left-over grandeur, pomp and praise and a snippet of score left bleeding ink darkening moss, there endings stop displaced tails of the conductor’s left gliding pincer grip, there words brood cheapness to counterpoint with cheap life as notes are as in cheap candy bars: could you imagine —waking and walking back inside as a second movement— an interlude, with vendors of sugar and crunch? Is my repertoire but a page away as bassoons ‘n’ bullfrogs announce me o’ they shall some day, some day they shall

Me my mi me do mi sol mi minor mi that chord as manure’s manners of ding dung ding when writing smells of opera, opera appears brass necked in the breath of a drunken sailor from across the street smudging the last bit of green, slipped on the wet flowerless street plant that lacks true roots in the dampness of dumbed down dumplings from next door’s hole in the wall: the opera house’s back door always slams composure.

—animasuri’23

via The Financial Times,
via Benjamin, George,
via Dr. WSA.

“Composer George Benjamin ‘Writing an opera is like diving into a pool for the first time’” (Financial Times)