Enter THE HOTEL OF THE MINDSCAPE.
HOTEL
I think the sole advantage of this place,
This hellish, warping, twisted tumbler,
Lies buried in collaborative art.
When sings again the song, another may
The words repeat, and add upon their tale.
To make a jest, or illustrate the piece,
To answer, mock, or Shakespearificate.
This, too, is why 'tis hard to draw out gold:
Thou cannot draw a pail from show'ring rain,
Thou cannot catch the desert in a net,
And, similar, thou cannot find the source
Of so-called "content" when 'tis all around.
When written first, a song begins its life,
But not the whole of art it has within --
To breathe the air of life and light and wit
It must be shared, improved, attached upon,
And then, at last, the multi-headed beast
Can reach its full potential in its song.
This place is like a forest, ground to leaf,
With bears and fish and bees and trees and worms.
'Tis not the simple "made, and then consumed",
For, truly, art 'tis never simply that.
There's symbiosis in these darkened woods,
There's ebb and flow, the predator and prey:
When songs are written of the Little Wayne,
And of his hot tub stocking hooves most fine,
The gentles here who say "they're hooves, you bitch"
Are just as vital as the author's song.
Each word in verse is sung by someone new,
And in this way, the poem comes to fruit.
For though the wolf who stalks across the heath
Takes diff'rent station than the grass beneath,
Still, both are needed in this wood we carve,
For with no grass for sheep, the wolves would starve.
Enter FALSE PUCHIKO, the CLOWN.
CLOWN
'Tis well and truly said, Madame Hotel,
But please consider this riposte: a cock.
dailybridgerton
discoholicmusic
janainaart
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
