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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My food is simple, unlike my music Most of the time I spend in excellent company My muse is unobtrusive and only appears with dessert If I were vain, I would compare my work To the labour of Sisyphus, but incidentally, I don't consider it meaningless: I see more meaning in the fall of a boulder than, for example, In the jumps of parachutists who risk getting tangled in their straps But vanity is infinitely inventive, I like to observe The tricks of the psyche that justify these pleasures My music seems abstract, although it is merely Autobiographical, and therefore translatable into the language of emotions, At least in allusive episodes Although I am not inclined to reproduce ready-made formulas To serve as a worn-out armchair for the audience I am for leaving the comfort zone for the zone of sadness The zone of rhetoric of deliberate inconveniences, where I am like a fish in water I ask questions and answer them myself, or I simply ignore myself, thereby mocking my Scattered plebeian curiosity. If the crowd listened to my ellipses and exclamations, My falling cupboards and jokes at funerals Would be appreciated and supported, And I would be recognised as a genius, for which, of course, I would apologise to the crowd, even though their romantic ideals Are utterly nauseating, but well paid. But the number of simpletons is truly infinite It is inversely proportional to the number of geniuses Cynics write music for the crowd Something like Yesterday and Candle on the Wind And my indulgent attention goes unnoticed My subtle jokes do not elicit smiles And therein lies my happiness as an avant-gardist Success would destroy me, but the indifference of the noosphere Prolongs my life, which I pay for With my music of spheres, squares and tendons.
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