LISTENING TO SHOSTAKOVICH

 

 

                                    It’s the end of the world—

                                    or maybe not. 

 

                                    You decide.

 

                                    Secret police

                                    record your every

                                    thought—

 

                                    but what thought!

                                    Platonic and unrelenting.

 

                                    Violins under the

                                    celli, terrorist clarinets,

 

                                    trumpets

                                    announcing

 

                                    more war dead.

 

                                    Bombs strike

                                    more than chords.

 

                                    Eyes bloom everywhere.

 

                                    At the same time

                                    lushness

 

                                    at its ease

                                               

                                    sipping some dose

                                    of aphrodisiac

 

                                    to forget

                                    to love

 

                                    in a time of fear.

 

                                    The fog hasn’t cleared.

 

                                    Abasement

                                    by the state leads

 

                                    the self

                                    into perfect

 

                                    clouds

 

                                    suffering in air

                                    a whole

 

                                    century.

 

                                                                    --David Radavich
 
 
 

 


 
 

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