Bubble Gum

We are happy about the music, a Mozart serenade that is not too dangerously deep. Somewhere in the night angels are falling off their nightmares, black horse escaping on an ebbing tide. Mozart is a skinny youth, his pink bubble gum is happy, you can tell by the way his tongue pokes through it, how he snicks the goo through his front teeth. Trick cyclists and other men in white tights hold us spellbound, we beam happily upturned faces shinning like full moons. It is good to be radiantly irradiated from doubt, cajoled by endless bouts of happiness. The music is remembered as it plays within the small organic organs of our love. Good that everything fits now with no sharp edges. Good to be smoothly functioning in such a non-challenging way. A harlequin struts, then bows obsequiously, we are happy that his triangulated three pronged hat can ring its little bells. It is good to stand in the shallow end and never feel the need to swim, sink or drown. Good to rely on the orchestrated dispensing powers that be, good to be this happiness measured out in prepackaged cups for ease of use and no unsightly waste. The devil is in the very fine print, nobody reads it, and the Cosmos of All Other Things snores on. Happily, we sing of he and thee, run to the television screens for reassurance, choose only the finest upholstery to keep us from sagging for another year. Let the soothing play on our world is not perfect, but its serenades are largely happy, and do not hound us out of our joy like other darker compositions do.