The man with the piano was wrong

Place me leaving towards mountains
and a balcony
and a view with a room behind almost empty:
no more news today.

These repertoire roles
                                   that never get old
are headlines of cathodes and of yellow brick roads,
where we’re going
nobody knows,
but we’re told by despair before eleven hundred whats
and whys
and the news anchor’s afloat, tie him to the side,
this shit
just
got
real.

If you’ve just turned up, news just in:
miscalculated spontaneity can be traced by its fin.
It swims in cool and collected,
in pools of would this be a problem if we burnt up in cahoots?
It's silence they’re after, boots upon bombs,
and they wish to scratch whistles from Champs-Élysées
into fistfuls of body from the meat of that song.

This isn’t coincidence anymore but comfort to someone who is witness to bad art.
So I’ll stay looking at this alpine view until parts do us due and we battle
in act two,
make up as we take it off,
and stop pretending we hate
‘cos if not the man with the piano was wrong.