About time life started to make sense. Amid the expanse of violins and cellos, there’s a few seconds of laughter. But what can you do when there is no consensus? Did it, in fact, make any sense? Doris Day presages Minimal Exactitude. Expensive is very analogue. For musical version of a helix, see above. Frog Day presages Digital Solitude. Full-spectrum light-bulbs illuminate your mouth. Getting enlightened isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Going towards a natural place. Has consciousness been explained? Have you had your extinction event yet? He considers the ways that the physical sounds of language echo or mimic the primordial structure of the cosmos. He leaves the line edges ragged to make beautiful discords. Henceforth modulation will be introduced, and greater variety of interest obtained. Herring gulls give considerable voice. Hey, this is very nearly too much. I like radio except when it obliterates internal voicings. I think it makes you sound like the Beverly Sisters. (I think not.) “Illustrated with musical examples” means nothing. Imagine only. In the street, a drunk sings “I’ve got to break free.” It’s a quantum jump into next week. It’s mediated through the cheapest transistor radio available. Just as poetry is always performance, so performance is not always poetry. Knowledge never tomorrows. Life started, sense departed, but what can you do? Light fills the sky. Luminous fields, with weathers circling. Lures and perils await us outside. Massive disparities exist in a social space. Meanwhile, on the right side of the stage, a dialogue takes place. Moving weather systems approach. Music is not about. Often over-romanticised, occasionally declamatory and florid. One hundred thousand people breathe in and out. Only imagine. Near the end of the world there’s a quantum jump. Passageway to the piano, first intimations of life. Pastiche Sondheim musical version of The Wasteland – perhaps not. Poems exist in a social space. Put some buzz in. Reflection becomes tedious. Rich but not at all strange. Silence, except for the rustle of young wheat. Sounds are forever receding from us. Such echoes are traces left by supermarket loyalty cards. The constant background of an ethnic/pop music station is soothing, reminding you of a visit to the dentist. Then take some buzz out. Think about floor covering. Tomorrow never knows. Twelve tones and a fish supper: what more could you want? Use of characterisation increases as confidence about community decreases. We inhabit a community of risk, as always. Well, that’s amore. Where did this begin? Where will it end? You will never have this experience again.

(Composed in celebration of the composer Michael Finnissy’s 60^th birthday in 2006)




			Ken Edwards

			60 short sentences for Michael Finnissy

			60 short sentences for Michael Finnissy About time life started to make sense. Amid the expanse of violins and cellos, there’s a few seconds of laughter. But what can you do when there is no consensus? Did it, in fact, make any sense? Doris Day presages Minimal Exactitude. Expensive is very analogue. For musical version of a helix, see above. Frog Day presages Digital Solitude. Full-spectrum light-bulbs illuminate your mouth. Getting enlightened isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Going towards a natural place. Has consciousness been explained? Have you had your extinction event yet? He considers the ways that the physical sounds of language echo or mimic the primordial structure of the cosmos. He leaves the line edges ragged to make beautiful discords. Henceforth modulation will be introduced, and greater variety of interest obtained. Herring gulls give considerable voice. Hey, this is very nearly too much. I like radio except when it obliterates internal voicings. I think it makes you sound like the Beverly Sisters. (I think not.) “Illustrated with musical examples” means nothing. Imagine only. In the street, a drunk sings “I’ve got to break free.” It’s a quantum jump into next week. It’s mediated through the cheapest transistor radio available. Just as poetry is always performance, so performance is not always poetry. Knowledge never tomorrows. Life started, sense departed, but what can you do? Light fills the sky. Luminous fields, with weathers circling. Lures and perils await us outside. Massive disparities exist in a social space. Meanwhile, on the right side of the stage, a dialogue takes place. Moving weather systems approach. Music is not about. Often over-romanticised, occasionally declamatory and florid. One hundred thousand people breathe in and out. Only imagine. Near the end of the world there’s a quantum jump. Passageway to the piano, first intimations of life. Pastiche Sondheim musical version of The Wasteland – perhaps not. Poems exist in a social space. Put some buzz in. Reflection becomes tedious. Rich but not at all strange. Silence, except for the rustle of young wheat. Sounds are forever receding from us. Such echoes are traces left by supermarket loyalty cards. The constant background of an ethnic/pop music station is soothing, reminding you of a visit to the dentist. Then take some buzz out. Think about floor covering. Tomorrow never knows. Twelve tones and a fish supper: what more could you want? Use of characterisation increases as confidence about community decreases. We inhabit a community of risk, as always. Well, that’s amore. Where did this begin? Where will it end? You will never have this experience again. (Composed in celebration of the composer Michael Finnissy’s 60^th birthday in 2006)


					pastsimple