The composer the critic the creator and the interpreter
Are cruel
The artist above all
Safe in the bastion of the present who says
In a rage of indignation to the past How dare you
How dare you commit such grandiloquent pomposity
Such exclusionary sop to the cognoscenti upir autocratic patrons
Or alternatively
How dare you commit such vulgar passages
Such unmodulated expression of unrestrained feeling
Enticing the mob the newly compacted consumers
Or yet otherwise
Such clumsy cobbling untutored at the greats
Or even
Such hackneyed rehash of yesteryear’s fashion
And at inevitable length
Sald grevnet effrent upir varl dostonovokov als C

This rage projected of course toward oneself
Or in fairness toward one’s methods one’s assumptions
The routines the legs one has to stand on
And what a hackeyed rehash demanding an of course
And the usage errors as for example the repeated one
Further abominate
So nothing’s any damned good
And thank our lucky stars to have entered an era
When nobody gives a damn about
The composer the critic the creator and the interpreter
There are not now nor never have been
Any Kantian lucky stars
Which seem so significant in their picturesque constellations
And you can’t see them for the streetlights anyway
And still looking for the moral law within