Music composed and played by Ashot Danielyan. Words written and spoken by Mario Savioni:
Song for Corona
(Lyrics inspired by Ashot Danielyan’s darker pictured “Tears” cut on SoundCloud.)
I wake to you on the dance floor.
The shifting moods of time.
In this limelight, the amber horns of honesty permeate the room.
Nevermore, shall I encase these dreams.
On top of this is sorrow.
Everyone I loved is gone.
All the memories have failed.
Even in song, the sorrows blossom.
The mixture of my anguish and sweetness charms the silence too.
The squirrels tumble.
The sun is humbled.
Bushes in the garden have their thorns.
A crown has been placed on your head.
You don’t wear it well.
By nightfall, I fall asleep again.
I don’t like grief or pain;
I know they are the same.
I just need more words for life.
I seem to hover on just a few.
The sorrows that spell my life are hand-me-downs.
Trouble is a friend,
And so is silence.
Never doubt the truth that comes to you.
Nothing makes sense, but it will.
This time is full of ghosts, who were surprised.
We were naked at the outset, told to say our goodbyes:
“Once I intubate you, you may not wake.”
So much of this is science fiction.
So much of this is fate.
I stumble forward,
Stumble out of bed.
They laid me on my stomach and paralyzed my legs.
You have my mind in swirling overtures.
The ground work you must do.
From dust to dust, we swing.
Two partners in a marathon.
Two friends in different countries playing different songs.
Grouped together by our wrecks.
The tumbling notes compartmentalize our eyes.
I see by not questioning the gait.
The fake bunny runs ahead.
This is like a funeral march, that repeats.
Or a school song that is played to the parents whose children are dead.
I take my gun to the closet.
It’s a scam.
They knock on the door or call me.
They want my information.
Our numbers are up.
No, take a number.
You will be called.
Take a number, and she’ll never call you.
She’s too upset.
I always went for girls, whose boyfriends wept.
I am in the market
With falling stock.
The bellicose troubadours are on the sidewalk.
Hair comes out of windows.
As do lots of flies.
There is a marcher.
He is the black shape of today.
Mario Savioni (c) April 23, 2020. (smcl)