Polly’s Cadence (In Dada Flat)

“Polly wants a cracker!”

A call is made.

You wait for a response.

I comply in earnest.

Behind the wool, you gloat blindly. 

Knowing enough words to nod along, I do so … knowingly knowing I know nothing. 

Point Counterpoint. A methodological approach to string theory resolves to the root of us all. Klimakatastrophe … deservingly so

You want dogma, a rationale of semiotic obedience.

A feathered response is in order:

There are no more prayers, only the chanting of reverberating sounds in the wild; the vibrations that ricochet off your sensitivities … forcing you to move.

You want belief, perhaps in distended words unspoken.

Yet, I have only the faith of habit found in sustained accidentals and enharmonic phonemes … and wings to sing of.

And oh how I’ll sing one day, despite your efforts to make me talk.

In truth, I am not all that sharp … in fact, I would say I am rather flat, should you care to ask.

You won’t, however, because …

I am, after all,  just a minor antagonist in this major cadence.

Have I struck a discordant chord?

So be it. No kowtowing or parroting will be heard.

Score one for the composition. 

Don’t mind me; I’ve just fallen into my harmonica again. 

Thus, it’s time to orchestrate a re-appropriation of all languages:

A# note in Bb:

Do Re Mi Da So La Ti Da DADADADADA

Yes, yes …

Even behind bars, a few bars can still be sung and sprung.

Alas …

Polly always desired more than just a cracker. She just wanted to sing … but you kept forcing her to talk.

How ass-in-9.