Audience

AUDIENCE

Audience.
Champagne bar.
Ring of glasses, voices, coins.
Trill of telephone.
Third call to go to hall.
Crushed ticket in the pocket.

Around,
Unknown faces.
Head turns round,
Night dream washes out
To nothingness...
Audience...
Specks of sun...
Fighting with illness,
He woke to weekday silence...

"My Dear Friend!
Feeling sick,
Artist wrote to say
His performance was very weak
On stage...
He did not succeed,
Did not convince her...
She did not discover
One drop of truth
On that Sunday...
She has left him.
Naked walls are what remains.
But she was
His Audience...
Ah, what happens?"

Composition Without Number.
The score consists of applause.
Musical moment form.
Hall
Of empty chairs,
Dust and old style.
Artist claps
With door
Hitting knee.
Artist calls
That accident
His "avant-garde" piece,
In its theme.

A man comes
By chance
To the hall...
He goes back...
Turning... out
Into the dark.
The door
Closes and claps...
Squeaking to itself:
"One more day of the week..."

Clap-clap,
Head slap,
Clap-trap.

"My Dear Friend!
Artist is in total despair...
His efforts... weren't rewarded by her.
Audience found this time
Too much truth
On stage:
"In our life, already,
There is too much pain..."
She left, being so sure,
Saying that she will not come to him
Anymore...
Even though
She was a faithful Audience to him,
Before..."

Clap-clap,
Butt slap,
Pole-hole.

Ringing of bell
Beats his heart. Allegro.
Culture and alcohol
Are mixed.
Contemporary cocktail.
Secco.

"My Dear Friend!
I'm sorry to have imagined you.
The artist is lamenting...
In the range of mezzo...
He is making something
That he didn't create...
He falls into childishness...
And the Audience...
She will come back...
Singing
With the flute of Spring...
Hugging, kissing
Her Artist
After his death..."