Nobody likes damn Bax but me And even then his pirouettes can be asphyxiant as bland
archer’s inconstant target miss or psychodramatics pretentious and overladen by fresh themes in misconceived half melodies that strive in overt confusion to avoid scenes of ecstasy:
innards made of cinematic
cardboard and cellophane ersatz glass where false feel inward psychic minions fake clash pseudotragic sounding smash arriving replete with stale mimesis of searing boredom done again and again like banquet breakfast omelettes for hundreds forced to listen to
a halfemotive rhetoric
of jittery monotony.
Baxonomic contrivances. That purely prophetic death of ear