Whiplash

There is a stick, series of notes, a cymbal: and all we wrote of sweat
and the bloodiness of determination we should discard.

Not everything is sociological. The formality of domains is smooth jazz
resplendent of Plato’s planet. Bow down, moonwalking bards.

Flesh is meant to be torn, and despite reputations’ conservatory
myths, artistry takes the shape of the drum upon the man.

Long known was it that the good is the enemy of the great. Little
urged is it that practice devour, else muscle retards.

Silhouette drags and rushes in conflicting cuts that crescendo: sweet
instrument, the perfection of objectivity saves your deadpan.

A movie theater never appeared duller and a date never so drained of
hormones than when a slap and a swear undecks old cards.

Pushed against many walls I scorn and sway off the crabs: music is
my jitter on whose cold, silver beat humanity is but a shard.

Orchestrates life through lips, fingers, angles, surprising our hands:
ambitions fall on the mass wayside, left standing is Elan.

whiplash_mehtacritic

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