This part V goes with parts 1-4, all of which is a symphonic suite on the foreplay that lives in the guise of the massage.
Finale: Allegretto Brilliante
The Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla
Conductor:
I, a Curt Masseur, took podium
by your side, baton in hand,
a delicate vibrato virtuoso touch
as metronome of mind and fingers
played your strings, your harp,
bore down on trumpet buttons
as deftly as on john's the strumpet
pushed to make her play, him pay
for just the minute waltz –
but, she an opera in the works
an opus, like French horn in hand
thrust through the bell, and clarinet,
sweet timbre like a sexy-phone –
all instruments are attuned to you
lying in the candle-scented boudoir
in the naked essence who you are.
Below the plains lies the all leg grotto
where grows the scented bush
where rose's petals ope and close
as evening's nocturne blows with winds
and reeds resound to meter beat of timpani
in this concert of love's symphony,
a suite, of solo artist entering where only
gods once entered through the haloed halls
where crowned is aura of your artistry.
Like swirling maelstrom, clashing rocks,
no many-headed Scylla threatening
at the mouth of cave, conductor waved baton
on downbeat upswing
probed within the ivory walls
slow introduction faster than Bizet
less vocal than the Orffean great
of orgiastic Fortuna fame
nor let out loud soprano scream
as entered I with warming cream
like slide trombone's long fluid shaft
pre-decorating your art, your craft
with my cadenza, the orchestra
awaiting long its cue from you.
It came in perfect harmony
in arias of you and me.
The Coda
All candles flickered final flames
blinking out of their existence
just a blazing spark, last gasp
before the darkness shut their eyes
blind witness to this practiced process
prompted by impromptu form,
this music interlude,
this calm before the storm.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 489 times
Written on 2007-02-09 at 20:37
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The Process, Part 5
Finale: Allegretto Brilliante
The Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla
Conductor:
I, a Curt Masseur, took podium
by your side, baton in hand,
a delicate vibrato virtuoso touch
as metronome of mind and fingers
played your strings, your harp,
bore down on trumpet buttons
as deftly as on john's the strumpet
pushed to make her play, him pay
for just the minute waltz –
but, she an opera in the works
an opus, like French horn in hand
thrust through the bell, and clarinet,
sweet timbre like a sexy-phone –
all instruments are attuned to you
lying in the candle-scented boudoir
in the naked essence who you are.
Below the plains lies the all leg grotto
where grows the scented bush
where rose's petals ope and close
as evening's nocturne blows with winds
and reeds resound to meter beat of timpani
in this concert of love's symphony,
a suite, of solo artist entering where only
gods once entered through the haloed halls
where crowned is aura of your artistry.
Like swirling maelstrom, clashing rocks,
no many-headed Scylla threatening
at the mouth of cave, conductor waved baton
on downbeat upswing
probed within the ivory walls
slow introduction faster than Bizet
less vocal than the Orffean great
of orgiastic Fortuna fame
nor let out loud soprano scream
as entered I with warming cream
like slide trombone's long fluid shaft
pre-decorating your art, your craft
with my cadenza, the orchestra
awaiting long its cue from you.
It came in perfect harmony
in arias of you and me.
The Coda
All candles flickered final flames
blinking out of their existence
just a blazing spark, last gasp
before the darkness shut their eyes
blind witness to this practiced process
prompted by impromptu form,
this music interlude,
this calm before the storm.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 489 times
Written on 2007-02-09 at 20:37
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
