Frank Corcoran

It is certainly not easy. Take my murder this hot today. Thwacked down on the fresh composer´s ink of his dazzling bar twenty seven ( all strings metred, chordal; five wood-wind macrocontrapuntally ” non sincronizzati”, he grandly paints. ) . It wasn´t easy being a fly; it never i. I was born, I flew, I was splattered on this bright note-paper. Which Mind thwacked ? Whose that murderous blow?
So what, I had interrupted his composer´s blessed flow, that bassoon line as a bass, supporting those cavorting, non-synchronized
horn and clarinet and oboe and flute. I slowed that down, the trickle. I know, I had distracted his polyphonic think. I tickled ´im once too much; he slapped my fly-entrails all over that bar twenty seven where they all begin to unravel. I flew. I, a fly, fui.