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Array
(
[sid] => 135080
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => In the Acoustic Halls of Frequency
[time] => 2007-06-09 14:32:41
[hometext] => The melodies never really touched their auditory glands...
[bodytext] => A symphony cacophony shows to tympanic membranes everywhere the subtle approach. Two trumpets: One with a high dominant D mixed with the other's recessive B; it's DNA and minor; a warning for the people-seats. Maestro sustains, left hand rising, crescendo, louder, pitch slowly panning for all to hear and taste while audience noses sniff leather. Many brain processes called it music, yet little-a-few saw a train or scarlet stains near the cargo pants, where fellow brothers lay still. Hand falls, lethargically, dreamily, hypnotically, pitch lowers, decrescendo, dieing off into a rustle of bows applying pressure to over 63 strings and fingerboards near their bridges, tremolo: ghost trenches with no-man's land. [Contrabass: low B Cellos: low D Violas: low F Second Violins: low G sharp First Violins: high A] The interlocking of horse-hair combined with steel, chrome and other various alloys made atmosphere-tapestry born. People's hearts were chilled, yet such jaded minds were thin at clear translations on the maker's cynicism. Yet, a little soul in the balconies, the low class slum section, had his heart opened with thoughts. He saw tank assembly and split-words, molded iron made into weapons, muddy puddles laced with dead napalm and ol' God with his holy angels frowning like a stereotypical toddler at the smiling victors near celebration. At the end, the conditioned persons clapped with joy, ignoring meaning for notes while a small trinket of youth remained silent in his seat. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 145 [topic] => 43 [informant] => skyhawk432 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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