What sphinx of marble and velvet bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Opera! Opulence! Beauty! Ugliness! Greasepaint and unobtainable encores! Children screaming in the balconies! Boys sobbing in the cheap seats! Old men weeping in the foyers!
Opera! Opera! Nightmare of Opera! Opera the loveless! Mental Opera! Opera the heavy judger of men!
Opera the incomprehensible prison! Opera the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of aesthetic bliss! Opera whose arias are judgment! Opera the vast sink of talent! Opera the stunned supernumeraries!
Opera whose mind is pure affectation! Opera whose blood is running flowers! Opera whose fingers are ten coluraturas! Opera whose breast is an enormous chandelier! Opera whose ear is a pit of repertory!
Opera! Opera! Gilding and sodium lights! Ballet dormitories! Deranged phantoms! Prima donnas! Stagehands! Librettos! Invincible recitatives! Granite countertenors! Monstrous bombs!
OK I feel like this requires some analysis (lol). No doubt the average opera singer is quite a bit more talented and has dedicated quite a bit more time to their craft than the average poetry writer. But still what's the point if no one wants to listen to opera? Isn't the joke on the person who dedicates tons of time and energy toward a dead thing, rather than trying to pursue something that resonates with a modern audience?
What sphinx of marble and velvet bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Opera! Opulence! Beauty! Ugliness! Greasepaint and unobtainable encores! Children screaming in the balconies! Boys sobbing in the cheap seats! Old men weeping in the foyers!
Opera! Opera! Nightmare of Opera! Opera the loveless! Mental Opera! Opera the heavy judger of men!
Opera the incomprehensible prison! Opera the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of aesthetic bliss! Opera whose arias are judgment! Opera the vast sink of talent! Opera the stunned supernumeraries!
Opera whose mind is pure affectation! Opera whose blood is running flowers! Opera whose fingers are ten coluraturas! Opera whose breast is an enormous chandelier! Opera whose ear is a pit of repertory!
Opera! Opera! Gilding and sodium lights! Ballet dormitories! Deranged phantoms! Prima donnas! Stagehands! Librettos! Invincible recitatives! Granite countertenors! Monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Opera to Heaven!
Funny & relevant.
Oh yeah? I bet you that my opera can kick your poetry's ass with one verse tied behind its back! Haha
OK I feel like this requires some analysis (lol). No doubt the average opera singer is quite a bit more talented and has dedicated quite a bit more time to their craft than the average poetry writer. But still what's the point if no one wants to listen to opera? Isn't the joke on the person who dedicates tons of time and energy toward a dead thing, rather than trying to pursue something that resonates with a modern audience?