Frank Corcoran

irish composer

‘‘The light gleams an instant’’

(See my Beyond Beckett 2006 Beckett Centenial Commission for the National
Gallery’s Centennial Concert, April 23, 2006, 12.30 to 17.30)

In einer eMail vom 03.04.2006 16:35:38 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

Tiocfaidh ár lá, yes, do hang on to this, especially in the Fight For The
Faith against all of tonight’s Benedictine blandishments. They tunnelled, I
was there, upwards from Norcia’s Lower Chapel, painting a genitalless
Gesù at the third turn of the tufa screw in their curved eighth century. Lab.
Ora. All not lost.

Light = Dante’s ‘‘Prime Mover’’?
Beckett’s?

It gleams, violin and bassclarinet and cello paint ‘‘gleeeee’’ in its full flight, its gob then stopped with my ‘‘mmmmms’’.

A Lucifer genuflecting, suppose with me, clicks a knee’s innate need to
worship, but, hould:
What then did cut off the Light’s gleaming? After its nano-second? After
its decent (- but please, define. Two hundred words.) ‘‘I gleam,
therefore I am and I definitely do have value’’?

It doesn’t matter now.

Will it? Happen to me in my sun-crazed head’s babbling fluids? – As I am
bending to whet which servant-girl’s heel-dinge? Or what impaled serpe,
perfectly harmless, milkless, no laughing lunge, will topple my guilt at the
drop of Corbianco milk? My robust belief that I’ll knit up the rent sleeve
of down-Milky-Lazio-Way streaming Cristo?

That’ll be Act Three. Let’m come. And they will; I bought hearth and
heart-history with Corbianco cows’ stalls’ shadows (- never a suicide in the best of families) in last winter, comfy by late April, would explore ould eye-balls
by the first week o’July. Act Two was consolidated by buying worms, their
wood. No dinge in sight then. Late love can mature before their impalement,
before my sixty cows’ whinge comes to shove the proprietario, well.

They calve gletchers. Great delight in just what my? We impaled St.
Augustine, we done a Dan Flyin’ Tipperary Breen Ould IRA rub-out (- not enough .
It doth behove) on: Middle Italian Rabbis and South-North Kill-joy and The
Unwashed Armpits Of Dopey Depression.

Sail high; flail; hail my highest and freshly purchased medlars. Ho-ho.

Posted under: Humble Hamburg Musings

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