sevenninesandtens

August 12, 2008 marked the commemoration of the celebrated lover of sound, John Cage. On that very day, in the highest passion of silence, four boys learned to embrace the infinite, as they transmogrified into grotesque notes that flutter within the recesses of noise. This is a day from such a diary that would mark the death of god and all that which remains are but numbers: seven nines and seven tens. On the Eve of his Majesty’s memory The lovers did commence To think of a sacrifice A sound...

August 12, 2008 marked the commemoration of the celebrated lover of sound, John Cage. On that very day, in the highest passion of silence, four boys learned to embrace the infinite, as they transmogrified into grotesque notes that flutter within the recesses of noise. This is a day from such a diary that would mark the death of god and all that which remains are but numbers: seven nines and seven tens. On the Eve of his Majesty’s memory The lovers did commence To think of a sacrifice A soundly little lamb To offer a man so grand In the haze of drugs and poor poor poetry the sheep did yell: I’ve got it! The perfect sound For The perfect man Grab your bats For I have a plan The sheep did lead the way With the Irish close behind Only the priest did sigh As is typical to his kind “To the residence of Mr. Glass! And we’ll soon discover If such a name Well— You’ll simply see” The priest’s eyes did open in shock But not in the least of that emotion The flurry of sounds entered His nasal cavities And as if carried by perfect 5ths. A sweet sensation did arise For the sheep was right Only the Irish remained surprised At the sight before his very Irish eyes “But!—that’s not a man That’s some effervescent flame Sitting In a room Simply waiting to implode Where strict silence Resembled strict code. Yet within this very man! No—this apparition this mirage This cocoon hollowed out Hollowed in— The code became digits and the numbers starts to flitter away “Quick, dear comrades! Burst this man And You’ll see what sounds he can play” So the revolutionaries took their bats And all looked like dandies Preparing for a golf swing Yet in one final blow What a splendid sound did ring! That man did shatter As was evidently the truth and that sound that emerged (what a sound did emerge!) Was forever lost within The echoes of a numerical abyss The recesses of (Mr.) glass Snowed to the ground And all that was left Was the code In pieces on the floor With all burnt out besides Seven 9s and seven 10s… Today I tell this story As if by memory Since I sit and gaze at A Glass Cage filled With the remains of Phillip John And Illuminated on the box A message: “to the three comrades Who eventually went insane Trying to recreate The sound That only numbers could name”