Viennan verse: MADDER DANCE

Madder dance
The epiphany
Of insanity,
The mark of genius
As a human characteristic.
Bourgeois overthrown
By his music,
Autistic and faint,
Sophisticated and great.
Something to dance to
It ain’t…For some.
Something to do with
The classics –
Something like canvas or paint
In a world full
Of paintings and pain.
Or,
Just something to dance to.

This crazy bastard
Absorbed life from the sane,
Put it in perspective,
With angles, triangles
And sinful,
Sonar Saints for
The faint of heart.
Part of me is thinking
This is a ship of the shams.
A charter sinking
Like rock stars jamming,
Slamming, blowing stamina
Until the morning
Blows their cover –
And a re-up never comes.
Part of me is thinking
Mozart is as narcissistic
As your first lover.
Part of me is wrong.

Oh, come, and let
Me hear ye songs,
Ye crazy old bat
With ye hair did on.
Sing me to life
A little princess,
One with petite tits,
Scarlett lips,
And a t-shirt on
That says:
‘Mozart rocks,
But the Don sucks.’

One more note
Of neurologically funny
Money and copper,
Gold harps, violins within,
Inexistent choppers,
And the end is
About to begin.
Again, this next of kin –
If cankerous minds king –
This prodigal son
Marks the beginning
Of a new time:
The époque of crazy
Civilized forever.
The piano concerto
Just may be the jazz
To our bodily
Compositions…
Human as we are.

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The Don

Walked through Burggarten to see Mozart’s monument, after failing to find a café where he would have visited – it doesn’t exist. “Café Mozart” or “Mozart Café” across the Albertina surely isn’t it.

Plus, I didn’t have four seventy (coffee with milk) on me.

Finally, I found his picturesque and statutory ass, shining from underneath the cover of snow in nearly the same color. I told him I would be back with a Wiener melange and a vanilla-flavored cigar from afar.

And so I was.

Like all the coffee with milk in Vienna, this one was unbearably tepid. Indeed you are better off getting a glühwein or orange punch if your goal is to gear up and warm up your coldest of sides.

Funny enough, I never needed to warm up at any given Viennan moment – as if the snow was in fact like a blanket, or my near-Dutch heart just felt right at home, no matter how little fat covering it.

No, I just needed my daily dose of caffeine. Besides, I had a date with Wolfgang, and he loves the smell of burning beans and vanilla in the morning, or so I imagine.

A secret that must be shared so I don’t look like some statue-loving fetish freak, is that Mozart is actually buried right there in the Burggarten; not in the cocky Zentralfriedhof, but not in the common people’s St. Marxer Friedhof either.

So, in order to discuss the thing I needed to discuss with this genius slash fellow ‘humad’ man, at the Burggarten is where I needed to be. Got out my transistor radio, put it on 1487 Hz, lit my Stimmung and enjoyed the composer’s company and thoughts for several ball-freezing hours.

(He was truly amused when I told him I had fallen fast asleep standing upside down during Don Giovanni. Indeed, he is convinced it was his least enticing opera ever made. Indeed, while the temperature belonged to my heart, my balls did what they did despite of it.)