Boris K and Nine Symphonic Novels

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Boris K. has been enjoying listening to The Greatest Pieces of Classical Music. While listening to Haydn (So goddamn boring! is what Boris thought) and later watching a documentary on Mahler’s death, he wished to hit Mahler’s head against a stone wall.

Boris K admired Ludwig Van Beethoven, even more than he admired communist leader Che Guevara and union leader Lenin. Seeking to know more about Beethoven’s personal life, he watched a documentary about the life of Ludwig Van Beethoven. Ludwig was adorned with bloodshot eyes… “Beethoven certainly delighted in creating music for mankind. It’s like being God!”

In tears before the monument of human genius, he came up with the idea of writing nine symphonic short stories based on his own exciting life.

“Boris K , the greatest discoveries of mankind are the toilet bowl and the shower”, he remembered the wise words of their inventor after the use of burts and night dishes in the 19th century. The legendary inventor has changed the destiny of humanity in that way!

Next up was Eroica. Boris K. it wrote in a dream. He dreamed he was a teenager in a Flash Gordon suit during a rocket attack fired by an evil emperor. He woke up with a shout, but not before being hit by the rockets. So, Boris K. woke up and wrote it.

Boris did not mind the third novel, which he called “the Pastoral Symphony”. He remembered the good old days, when, on his first visit to Zlatibor, he fell in love with a shepherdess, and then left her when he found out she was an assassin

Boris K. was angry as he wrote the last line of the novella: “And I saved her from the evil bear!” The fourth novella was even easier: “Remember, readers, when Megaimportante put me in jail and forced me to sing key parts of Beethoven’s Fourth as part of a prison ballet,” Boris K. wrote.

At least my voice was warmed up with ” Prille Prolle ” !! But it wasn’t! – Boris sighed, “However, I used my belcanto knowledge to escape from prison disguised as Beethoven.

“During the break I managed to conceal Ludwig’s death from the audience, and since the whole elite was there, no one knew he had died for 200 years.”

Boris rubbed his hands together after finishing the fourth novel. “This will be a hit! I was born to write short stories.” He approached the TV and kissed Ludwig’s frozen picture. (pressing the “Pause!”Pause!”Pause! ” button) Right in the head! “For his work Ludwig, you will receive a laudative,” Boris K promised the frozen TV screen.

While Boris was swept up in visions of all the glory from sales of such ingenious novels, he continued to speak

He dreamed up the seventh novella. He was the star of Woody Allen’s movie. Woody was Boris’ favorite filmmaker. It was jazzy.

During filming, he seduced the main actress, leaving Woody short of a load, shattering the movie plot!

When Boris woke up, he thought: “A novel based on real events!”

In addition to the eighth novella, Boris began writing the ninth. Would that remain unfinished?

Ludwig, don’t even get me started on it. Boris realized, “It will definitely remain unfinished.”

In renouncing the ninth novella, Boris K. set out on a new adventure, renouncing the ninth novella, but not before writing an explanation in the footnote of the unfinished book:

I and Beethoven renounce … as Beethoven renounces his symphonies, so shall I renounce my novellas. And not just one, but all nine! I renounce it. I resent them. We renounce ever knowing ourselves. Europe is at fault.

Boris had a dream in which Beethoven told him that Europe was hypocritically using his anthem and that he should leave the book open to allow the audience to hope that there will be a sequel.

Me solum relinquatis*

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The Kapellmeister is up!
Ah mastery…

hell’s spider blossoms
lilies of thunder
to swallow the passerby
(are you able to ponder?)

one, two, three, four…
hangman measures his rope
digger digs and clutches
hauls to fore
madness
  death-fires
dis
    death-fires
madness
    horse
madness
    death-fire madness
horse
    running
dis
    horse running
running
      running
horse

let me walk in peace
towards morning softness
sun measuring the hours
with ancient precision
upon a sidewalk
along a road that plays Rossini
whose asphalt is cratered
like a mix of steps and cloven

here and there
guardian bats follow me

the world can be horrible, but not dirty

against all disgust
I kept my good taste
and laughed
    laugh

but you, Kapellmeister,
are pathetic
obsessive
pathological
soft
    and weak

  • Me solum relinquatis: meaning in English: Leave me alone

Fie oh an’t fie



Fie oh an’t fie!

a musical silence, the initial harmony.

discord and struggle, during a white circle,

is babbling some made-up tune


O, the music!

o, the oomph!

stains stains stains

black black black

it’s a livin ‘.


Symbolic dance macabrei,

countless murders,suicides, apparitions,

disturbing unfolding of images at a furious pace,

chasing the dead, the dead, prostitutes,

burning angels and gods,digging through graves,

reviving the underworld,all those armies in retreat,

that blood and fires,the bells

And also the arson
and also the madness of a frantic chase,

Beethoven is played, drinking expensive cognacs

smelling Burmese herbs and caressing stuffed skins.

and that life was lost.


At the royal fair distorted Turkish

Hungarism and Anglicism

in Suleiman’s Palace a special “hu”

they are jumpy transitions,a feature

of that one-act play.


At a furious pace, hilarious noise

FORTE!

and eerie silence alternate,wild dance and terrified stiffness,

punches and hugs,laughter and tears,life and death,

light and darkness,

and that’s life.


A wild drunken wheel roars through the stage,

sucking in people type of a hurricane,horses,

black dogs, beasts from the menagerie,

and, finally, a chorus of more vampiric dead,

suicides from Toledo’s wheel

It’s a part of Life


A suffocating song of horribly black spots

your life was a fight with beasts

believe it! snakes, hyenas and wolves

watch them grin and sing

a curse upon it!

In in a low voice….


© Leila Samarrai

Photo Credit: Ilene Meyer

The key sum of all things


MUSIC

Cello made of sponge

and rosewood

releasing a flow that is a unison

of hold-able

liquid

Of musicke

POETRY:

a short, tight strum,

as-is,

worth the reed

the sap blood of living things has found

and will ink a new font

in what’s left of the human hour.

FILM: Film’s the mad black Easter egg

for a great many people.

under Phoenix brood, inhaling the smokes

of flesh &n’ blood.

Freudian, drowning in the human average,

id hearing the threat of being lock’t-in.

all set to a one-song opera.

damn good stuff.

Mediate on and harvest

to my level of capability

from these lighten bolts

disguised as roses,

these fences made from prism glass,

these marrows which no bone

of the human or the universe could turn aside:

But then, again, isn’t the key sum of all things best played on a harp

made of pyrite, snakes &n’ roses caught in the strum?

Background Noise


Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.

As the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
 
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.
 
Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
 
Compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
 
Bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvelous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures ’tragedies.
 
Grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and decent folk.
 
It is that flood gouache of history
wide strokes, big words
a trembling translation of our non-deliverance
reason without time
time for no reason
liquid mirror…
 
Is it just because it is not visible.
is it just because it can’t be heard
what is taught in other worlds
in moments of chewing
in the midst of such a song of decay
 
Now you can do EVERYTHING from this NOTHING
overflowing, obscure …
Let there be Background Noise from the indigestible whisper

She is never left voiceless
even when unheard

 

Photo Credit: Invisible Audience, Jason Craighead

Piano, 1999


A siren splits the air

I sit at piano Bach beckons

my fingers dance over ivory and ebony

aeroplanes rip the skies a whistling shriek

BLAST

My mother’s head cracks like glass

BLAST

A girl, I waved at aeroplanes

American flags painted on tails their speed

enthralled me

BLAST

I laughed in red sprayed red laughter

wipe my eyes laughing

BLAST

I closed the piano and turned my back on the dead keys

Let there be Music!


Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.
as the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.

Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and decent folk.

Late Night Poets discussing my poem “Dervish”, with comments


Dervish

I had learned the secrets of the universe
from the manuscript itself,
and had felt the tones in the best of my fingertip muscles.

Now, wasn’t it Music who went to the desert to know…
that, in the wasteland of life, here,
under this tree may my body be as the one of the Savior,
and may the menace itself visit me,
to engender within me a sacred tone…

He uses a ney. A Crooked Pan.
a ney..Karghy tuiduk, an instrument of wind.

And a Crooked Pan trapped me on the spot with her first tone
in the vortex where music enters the man
and disappears inside of him somewhere.

And I, Dervish, played the instrument made of hollow reed,
skillfully shuffling his fingers across the ney holes.
It was a round-up of the movement of music dug deep into the rhythm.

I danced swept by the accord of divine forces
streaming from “the spheres” –
and within the Dervish’s song through the typhoon,
I spun around faster and faster in an unexpected manifestation of the universe,

to perceive, through the binding
of the heavens and the earth,
a universe of love and a different godly principle,
hypnotically repeating “Masnavi, Masnavi” pushing close to a hallucination.

– The spiral is the evolution of the circle.

Transcendental, indeed. It can be performed with an echo. Oh, how sonorous, Orpheus.

Ah, I felt that the spiral is open for my musical ears.
I must continue! I must!

All the way to the devil’s tail! – the scream no longer slumbered in the throat, and my face went black and blue as if both tar and wax were poured on it.
the spiral is the evolution of the circle – even though he was still speaking, a force of dead nature! It was clear to me now, this Dervish who was miles away… somewhere close to the horizon, leaving only the memory of his wild stare and …oh, and… I cannot forget what I have just heard… ah, I would never forget! And some of it is already gone!

this strong tonal ace to win in a cruel and uncompromising game of destruction for the purpose of creation.

– Well go on, then, finish it! – I grabbed the Dervish’s shoulders desperately – Finish it, I want to hear more! Until the end! You barely played anything at all, so why did you stop playing? I want you to play all the way to the coda, do you understand me? All the way to the devil’s tail!
– Look into yourself. This is where music is hidden.
Do not despair, I shall come again and rebuild all of those ruins…
in a century or two because I have something important to do.

ap7ap8

Eurydice awakened


Eurydice awakened proclaimed and alive
in a haunted room, like a gruesome coast,
in the night underground; Hades does thrive
on his reign, he limps, the lord to the host
of the dead, the God of Earth and Earths,
a quarantine-Hell-Deadening-Matrix.
Your devotion, death, meekness swanned as worths
by the dead like hurt souls needing medics
Omega Eyes silent for all cozy
with an orgasm of a deadly glow!
Live after being static and comfy,
the eyes keep watching the front gate death’s row;
under the royal nail, terrors change fire,
a wet node in a deaf room, it’s all lyre.
editor: Obinna Eruchie

Late Night Poets/After Midnight – Rhythm and Rhyme


My poem was read on the After Midnight radio listener show – you can hear the poem read by myself as well as comments on the poem by fellow late-night poets at allpoetry

Thank you all, guys. You are awesome.

https://allpoetry.com/group/31955-Late_Night_Poets

Late Night Poets is dedicated to the celebration of creative minds. We are a welcoming forum for poems, stories, art and ideas. We encourage absolute beginners, seasoned pros and anyone in between. All we ask is that everyone be treated with respect. Late Night Poets is a reflection of our community spirit. A place to share, develop and reveal the best parts of ourselves. We welcome ideas and views.
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https://www.blogtalkradio.com/latenightpoets/2019/11/18/rhythm-and-rhyme-with-rex-luna