Aug 30, 2009
Gentle repetition like waves of memory and prospect, the sonata beckons my heart.
I make love to Beethoven whilst he makes love to a rhythm i cannot bear.
The truth is I imagine another and for that I am not ashamed.
Perhaps the discordant rhythm of our patterns is not his fault but in truth
my own beating drum.
Who are you and how did you trumpet your way into my bedroom and into my head?
Who would you be if I knew you fully?
Would I choose him instead?
Not alone in this constant quest, women and men before have long felt this tremor.
A love, a loss, a yearning.
and Beethoven strums his measure.