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Philip Glass

can't

decide

if he's

a man

or a mirror

he keeps

changing

one moment

he's solid

and

I

see his

nice eyes

and watch

his nose

dip

into the wine

glass to

smell

the bouquet

little hairs

grow out

of his ears

and

the funny

cap

he's wearing

has

pictures of

his parents

sewn on it

his hands

are thick

and brown

with one

gold ring

on

a big finger

he is about

to crack

a joke

you know

the one

knock knock

who's there?

the Irish

burglar

but just

as he opens

his mouth

to say it

his face

runs thin

and his body

squeezes

flat and

he's pure

glass

about

a centimetre

thick

dressed

in clothes

of course

and shiny

on one side

I see

my face

reflected

in his

and I hear

my voice

bounce back

again

he's saying

just

what I was

about to say

but just

before

I

say it

I'm not sure

if he's

playing

a trick

on me

or whether

he really

likes me

any way

the other

composers

don't take

any notice

of him

because

they're

too busy

decomposing

you see

they're

all dead

they melt

slowly

in the middle

of their

dinner

their faces

all twist up

and their

bodies

go sloppy

and gross

and ooze

out of their

clothes

I knew

this was

too good

to last

soon

they

have melted

all over

the table

and run

onto the floor

the brown

stuff

bubbles

and

evaporates

in a few

minutes

nothing is

left

but

the food

on the table

and the wine

and the

glasses

and

silverware

and

the

composers'

clothes

empty

on the chairs

slighty

damp

and

Philip Glass

an

ordinary

person again

chatting

away to me

as though

nothing

has

happened

amazingly

no one else

in the

restaurant

has noticed

anything

but when

it comes

time

to say

goodbye

to

my friend

I feel

my head

my whole

body in fact

is stuffed

with music

and it will

take all

my life

and a bit

more

to bring it

out

so

other people

can

hear it

 

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