Soaring

Sore soaring up into the sky. Fingers plucking at the air-strings. All of those little place-parts that are part of the octave. It goes like this: flute, flute, flute.

I wonder where all of the minim parts go? Are they hiding in amongst the dirty parts we hide? I look for them amongst fluffy crotchets. Dancing, dancing pianissimo moments in the dark.

The dwell on one note is always beautiful. It is always clarinetandsugar. It is in me and diving through me and out through my mouth. The mouth-piece of word and finger. I am licking at it and sometimes I want to throw it out to the world. The truth of it all. On the tip of my tongue. The lark-voice, the little lippings that make up a song.

One, two, three. Fox-trot in the darkness.
Waltz-marks on my wrist, the dancing knife was there.

Oh, the staccato dreams and the dip, dip, dip sound of movements up and down the harp. It is a the scree and talus fingers that move up and down the scale.

Oh how I long, I love to play the piano. With all of its heart and the fingers, the fingers. I want to play to you. I want to play into the night and into the day. I want to play 'Pavane for a Dead Princess' all through the fingers hear the lovely warmth of death.