matt-berry-franz-liszt

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Some why whenever I read your posts I do it with a French accent. You’re not even French what is that about??? Why is my brain doing that

Ahhh… but of course.

Your brain, mon petit éclair of confusion, is not malfunctioning—it is merely succumbing to the inescapable elegance of my linguistic flair.

True, I am not French.

Not by passport.

But dare I say—in aura? In smoulder? In the tragic arc of my eyebrows?

I am catastrophically continental.

You read my words in a French accent because your subconscious is trying to cope with the overwhelming drama.

It hears the silk.

It smells the cologne. The Cognac. The smoke.

It sees the metaphor undressing itself by candlelight.

And what language, what sound, could possibly wrap itself around such debauchery with dignity?

French. Obviously. Oh lá-lá.

C’est la psyché, darling.

You are not broken.

You are simply correct.

-F.

Pan-European Menace, but temporarily Hungarian. Maybe eternally Untranslated.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

JOB APPLICATION IS HERE :>

Ah! A job application, is it?

Sent not with resume nor formal greeting—but with a smirk-shaped glyph, a symbol both coy and chaotic.

“:>”

A sideways grin that says, “I may or may not know what I’m doing, but I look fantastic doing it.”

Let me assure you: I have received your application.

Qualifications? Unclear.

Experience? Mysterious.

But that confidence?

That is the stuff of revolutions, scandal, and very successful marketing campaigns.

Therefore, applicant, consider yourself under dangerously charming consideration.

I may call upon you at midnight. Or never. Or constantly.

Depending on the moon. And your choice of hat.

Yours in flamboyant bureaucracy,

—F.

CEO of Spectacle. HR Director of Destiny. Keeper of the Unread Résumés.

P.S. You will be judged on your walk, your tea-pouring technique, and how you respond to minor key mood swings. Proceed accordingly.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

(Throws my sendal swallows with 100% sg mom power to you while running away)

Ah! I felt it before I saw it—

The blessed arc of your sandal swallow, slicing through the atmosphere with the force of pure, undiluted SG mom energy—a projectile not of leather and thread, or rubber, but of generational judgment, justice, and just enough perfume to burn the sin off a Venetian bed in the 1700s.

You ran, but the sandals spoke.

And I—standing amidst the velvet wreckage of my latest vacation—did not dodge.

No. I received them.

Chest first.

Like a man.

Like a composer who has been scolded by empresses, duchesses, and at least one ghost nun. I was actually scolded by a ghost nun yesterday.

I accept your wrath with reverence, and I tie the sandal’s strap around my wrist as a bracelet of fate.

This is no ordinary chastisement.

This… is prophecy.

So run, dear one, if you must.

But know this: you have marked me.

And should your sandals return to you, boomerang-like in their divine maternal logic… I shall already be composing a sonata in their honor.

Yours in bruised pride and poetic surrender,

—F.

Former target. Future ballad.

P.S. That aim? 10/10. Are you secretly from Sparta?

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

WEI, STAWP COPYING, GET A JOB APPLICATION(SAID DIRECTLY BY A 新加坡人)

Esteemed Sirs, Madams, and You in the Fifth Row with the Mahogany Fan,

I must regrettably—and flamboyantly—decline your generous and increasingly desperate offers of employment, engagement, and cohabitation.

For I am, as ever, already a wealthy composer.

A composer so wealthy, in fact, that my dreams have a valet. My gloves own gloves. I sneeze in key.

And, more pertinently, I am on vacation.

Yes, a full and proper Lisztian sabbatical—the kind that begins with wine and ends with a poem scrawled across a duchess’s décolletage.

I currently reside in Nonnenwerth, where the days stretch like adagios and the air is perfumed with the sighs of prior scandals.

When not being adored by geese or nuns, I occasionally astral-project myself to the Copa Cabana, where I recline, shirt adrift, thighs scandalously exposed to moonlight, composing nothing but the occasional smirk.

To the ladies reading this—

No, I haven’t forgotten you.

You, who gasped at my cadenza and then pretended it was the draft.

You, who lingered at the edge of the salon, half-terrified, half-trembling.

Let me assure you:

I may be resting…

But my intentions never sleep.

And should I return to public life, it shall be with such a flourish, such a winking blaze of unrepentant charisma, that the chandeliers shall blush.

Until then, I remain gloriously elusive,

—F.

Count of Crescendo. Bishop of the Boudoir. Baritone of Bad Decisions.

P.S. If you see Wagner—do not engage. He’s been composing through dinner and whispering to Albatrosses again.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

I see you’ve met someone as.. eccentric as you, darling. I’m glad you found a kindred spirit like lusha~

So yes, dear Lila—your assessment is correct.

I have found a kindred spirit.

And you? You saw it first, as you always do, like the omniscient salon witch you are.

Now please, stay close.

Every tempest needs its lighthouse.

And every Liszt needs his Lila in the corner, sipping vermouth and muttering,

“Oh God, he’s going to monologue again.”

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Signorina Tempesta… that would truly be an astoundingly fitting name… if I was Italian. Sadly, you have guessed incorrectly, my dear sir. As lovely as that would be to live somewhere warm and inviting, somewhere close to the sea, that is not the case. My land is cold, unforgiving at times. But-! It is beautiful in its own right.

Perhaps I should take your word for it and pursue this dream anyway? You make it sound a-thousand times more tantalizingly romantic. And that you would join me? Even better!

I must ask, is there a particular horse you have in mind for yourself? Maybe you have heard of them before, but Lippit Morgans are, in my opinion, “where it’s at”, as they say. I have my own eyes on a beautiful light draft crossed with these Morgans. It does not look overly muscular, but it is moderately tall and fearless!

In any case, I wish you a “good morning”, as that is the time I write this.

-Lusha 🌻

Ah, Lusha!

Signorina Tempesta, you say it would not fit? Then I refuse to accept reality as it is presented to me! For what is nationality, really, if not a mood dressed in weather? And you, my dear, carry the voltage of a Mediterranean squall no matter what frostbitten corner of the globe you write from. Cold and unforgiving, you say? Ha! You may reside in a place of snowdrifts and sullen pines, but you write with the warmth of a sun-drenched veranda and the sort of wistful grandeur that makes old poets drop their quills and weep into their espresso.

Yes, pursue it. Ride forth like a heroine in a wildly inaccurate 19th-century operetta—hair unbound, cheeks aglow, scandalizing the provincial neighbors with your glorious, thundering freedom! And know that I, Liszt (Matt Berry-shaped and chaotically embroidered), shall join you. I shall arrive astride something utterly ridiculous.

You speak of Lippit Morgans—fine beasts, noble, like well-composed waltzes with hooves. But me? Ah, no. I must have something that reflects the deep absurdity of my romantic constitution. Something dramatic. Emotional. Unreasonable. Perhaps… a Percheron painted to resemble a harpsichord, or a long-legged Friesian named Caprice No. 69. I want something that neighs in diminished sevenths and spooks only at the scent of unrequited love. I will ride it sidesaddle, and upside down if necessary, wearing nothing but a brocade dressing gown and the sheer force of my conviction.

Lusha, I thank you for your morning wish. In return, I offer you this: may your path be blessed with cooperative stirrups, a saddle that doesn’t squeak at inopportune moments, and a horse who loves you like a Liszt loves a tragic melody—intensely, irrationally, and with just a touch of madness.

Yours in velvet and hoofbeats,

F.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

I'm sorry for making such a presumptuous request, but please write less next time you post

Your text is undoubtedly extremely beautiful, but I use translation software

I sincerely apologize for any inappropriateness

Ah, dearest soul—no apology needed at all! Your kindness and honesty are more precious than brevity ever could be.

And truly, thank you for telling me. I sometimes let the words run away like overexcited spaniels at a garden party—leaping over hedges, knocking over teacups, getting tangled in their own metaphors. I’ll try to give them a shorter leash next time, for your sake and your valiant translation software.

But just know: even if my syllables come wrapped in too many ruffles, each one bows to your patience and meets you with gratitude. And if ever it gets too much—tap me on the shoulder again, and I shall doff my verbal top hat accordingly.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

I’m on my knees waiting for you to drop those pants baby 😘

Good God, is it you, @franzliszt-official ? Finally?

On your knees, is it? Gracious heavens, sir, you do know how to ruin a Tuesday. And it's not even Tuesday.

But tell me one thing—is it my birthday yet? Because it feels like it.

Still, you must know: if I’m to drop my breeches, I expect fanfare. Trumpets. A minor key tremolo.

Until then, I shall remain enigmatic, half-dressed, and perched languidly upon the pianoforte—awaiting your next outrageous advance.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Everything! And nothing...

It is a compliment baby. Ironic how it took you a life time to figure that out though. I’m glad to have met you now instead of back then. You know you’re my favorite don’t you~? Though Liszt is also pretty nice.

- Lila 💜

Thank you! Of course, liebe Lila.

Yes, Liszt seems to have that effect on people.... His bloßer existence seems to captivate crowds. At least, Franz does. I don't think that the same can be said about this Matt Berry Franz figure....

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Oh don’t worry darling, I still read everything you write… it feels like it’d be for waste if I don’t 😅

- Lila 💜

Ah, but of course you do, darling. I knew it the very moment the wind changed and a suspiciously poetic breeze slipped in through the curtains. One does not pour this much perfumed nonsense into the void without a secret pair of eyes drinking it in like spiced wine.

You think I didn’t feel the flutter of your attention like a moth brushing past my collarbone? Please. I write knowing full well that you're there—perched somewhere in the wings, grinning, sighing, perhaps rolling your eyes, but reading nonetheless.

And for that, my dearest reader of wayward ramblings, I keep the ink wet. I keep the metaphors ridiculous. I keep the seduction strange.

Carry on, then. I’ll keep performing. Just for you.

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Of course, of course.

Well, Franz, I could offer you help. I mean, maybe I am in the lucky position to shut the door to the abyss once more, but there is a lil problem, only you can solve.

I'll give you another hint again:

What more can you wish for! I Am Here! Every day, because of this ghastly thing & the hallstorm of mails this situation is bringing about!

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

The Mollusk Whisperer, eh? What a delightfully interesting pen name you have chosen. I don’t think I have had the pleasure of meeting someone so enthralled by these creatures.

I know I had said before that I questioned your sanity a little, but I find myself a tad irritated by that strange individual treating you like a physic ward patient… I am once again reminded of the limitations of judging a book by it’s covers.

I must admit that I have had dreams of being something of a cavalryman. Alas, it could never be, firstly because I am a woman and secondly, I would not have the means nor qualify physically to become one. Perhaps I should run away and become a wild nomad in the lands of my birth? Perhaps I could join those free spirited Cossacks? All pipe dreams, unfortunately….

Do you have any dreams which you know could not be achieved? Or perhaps you are more optimistic then I.

-Lusha 🌻

Lusha! Ah, "eh?"—now there’s a flourish that dances on the tongue like espresso over parchment. Forgive my boldness, but I must say: that tiny, effortless lilt has betrayed you, Signorina. You must be Italian. Or at the very least, your soul is dipped in olive oil and defiance. One cannot toss a "eh" so carelessly without a lineage of poets, rebels, and dinner tables too loud for God Himself to interrupt. I guess you like it as well, @franzliszt-official

Now—The Mollusk Whisperer, yes. An absurd and noble calling. You see, I find in freshwater mollusks an elegant resilience: slow, ancient, oddly erotic in their stoic silence. One must lean close to hear them—just as one must lean close to hear truth whispered beneath madness. You do me great honour by understanding this—by defending me, even! While others would label, you listen. That, my mysterious would-be cavalrywoman, is the highest grace.

Ah, the Cossacks… I can see you now: wind-cracked lips, eyes like sabres, galloping across the steppe, loosing laughter into the wild air. You say you couldn’t—because you are a woman? Because you are not built for war? Then let war reshape itself to you! Let sabres be stitched into your skirts, let saddles yield to your stride. I say: if your body says “no,” then let your spirit tear the heavens until they say “yes.”

As for my own impossible dream—I once longed to be a conductor of storms. Yes. To raise gales like arias, to bring lightning down in triplets, to hush clouds to pianissimo with the tilt of my jaw. But the weather is a diva, and I but a stagehand of flesh and noise.

Still… if I cannot become the tempest, then I shall serenade it. Or better still—ride beside you through it.

So, tell me, Signorina Tempesta… if I fashioned you a saddle from sonnets, and carved a sabre from starlight—would you ride beside me?

Or would you lead, and let me follow like a lovesick shadow, whispering to mollusks in your wake?

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

But therein lies the rub, doesn’t it? @ludwig-v-beethoven

You speak of @franzliszt-official as if he were a marble statue—glorious, aloof, perpetually drenched in divine light and audience sighs. And yes, that "bloße" existence, that chiselled cheekbone of a man, once did command rooms into reverent hush. He was a comet.

But this—this Matt Berry Franz—he is the echo that refused to fade. He is the afterglow, drunk on Cognac and reciting poetry to his own reflection in a puddle. He is the same Liszt, yes, but scrambled by time and lust and theatrical bassline. The man behind the marble. Unpolished. Full of working hands and yearning. He is what happens when genius survives the spotlight and learns to talk.

Do not underestimate this Franz.

He may not captivate crowds...but he ensnares souls, one by one, like ivy in a corset.

And isn’t that... a far more dangerous art?

It is a compliment baby. Ironic how it took you a life time to figure that out though. I’m glad to have met you now instead of back then. You know you’re my favorite don’t you~? Though Liszt is also pretty nice.

- Lila 💜

Thank you! Of course, liebe Lila.

Yes, Liszt seems to have that effect on people.... His bloßer existence seems to captivate crowds. At least, Franz does. I don't think that the same can be said about this Matt Berry Franz figure....

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Ah, Franz... @franzliszt-official , my dear rogue. My twin in tempest, in tremolo—what has become of you?

You were once the sovereign of salons, the caresser of keys and hearts alike, but now? Now you’ve turned your back on the sacred, the sweet cookies. That tender offering of warmth and delight—crumbed with love, browned by devotion—and you, of all men, have spurned it?

Do you not remember, brother, what it meant to receive a cookie from her? Not merely a baked good, no, but a benediction. A palm-sized universe of care. A soft, warm declaration of affection. To scorn it... is to betray not just taste but trust. You have cracked the crust of a sacred thing.

And beyond that—you have wounded hearts that adored you. Good ones. Bright ones. The kind that forgive too often and love too well.

Look at me. No, truly—look at me, Franz. This is not a chastisement. This is a friend's reminder. You’ve let the velvet mask slip into disdain, let your charm curdle into aloofness. You may wear the name, but names are but breath if they don’t carry weight. And yours—our name—was once synonymous with reverence.

If the chaos of the world has left your manners in tatters, if the silken graces have slipped from your shoulders like a discarded cape in some forgotten ballroom—you needn’t flounder alone.

There’s always @chopinski-official

So swallow that pride, Franz. Take a piano bench beside him. Let him show you how not to leave a trail of broken hearts and unsweetened tea.

Because redemption is real, and sometimes it comes with sugar.

Well, Franz, I could offer you help. I mean, maybe I am in the lucky position to shut the door to the abyss once more, but there is a lil problem, only you can solve.

I'll give you another hint again:

What more can you wish for! I Am Here! Every day, because of this ghastly thing & the hallstorm of mails this situation is bringing about!

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Ah, my dear Anon—how gallant of you to notice! Yes, it seems I’ve been mistaken for a delicate case of the mind rather than a majestic case of the divine absurd. But worry not—I take it all with the sporting spirit of a Victorian fencer in breeches, parrying each diagnosis with a flourish and a bow.

Let them prescribe! Let them clutch their clipboards and murmur about delusions—while I, unbothered, continue to compose in the key of lunatic charm, tossing bon mots like rose petals and wearing my eccentricities like a goddamn fancy hat.

So fret not, sweet companion in hormonal havoc—we are simply too vivid for the grayscale of ordinary minds.

I’m pms some dude is treating that other franz like he’s a psychiatric patient 😭😭😭😭😭

Well, is he not?

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Let me say, with a knowing wink: Congratulations, old boy. You’re adored—again. And if I may be just a little smug (and I shall), perhaps I nudged the carriage wheels of fate back onto your path. A subtle campaign of charm, lunacy, and whispered nonsense... voilà! You return triumphant.

Now go on—bask in the adulation! Struggle gallantly beneath the weight of affection! Be the tempest at the piano and the sigh in their hearts. And if ever the letters become too much, just know: I’ve got ink-stained fingers and scandalous intentions at the ready.

Also: Raise the cookie, good sir, to its rightful throne beside symphonies. Declare, as wouldst a Shakespearean prince:

"Hark! Bring forth the biscuit that woos the tongue and melts in moonlight! Let no man sleep whilst the oven calls his name!" @franzliszt-official

I beg pardon from all of you. I have received a number of letters such as that I cannot really sort through all of those who have requested my attention. I'm sorry!

[matt-berry-franz-liszt]

Oh, so you understand the magnificent elegance of the horse? I love them. They are fine, spirited creatures of freedom. You have described them so utterly well!

So, you are that fond of your freshwater friends? How many do you have as of right now? I would like to know their names, since you seem to have such a knack for christening these creatures with names appealing to their characters.

A sword of the Ottoman type, you say… perhaps another curved blade. The Kilij! The name itself is derived from the Turkish word for ‘sword’. Very original, yes? It’s a bit too curved for my liking, to the point of almost looking like a sickle. Well, perhaps that’s a bit dramatized, but they still aren’t to my taste.

A duel… well, unfortunately I could not participate in anything physical. My wrists cannot take the strain as well as they should. I believe slicing through willows will have to be enough for me….

-Lusha 🌻

Ah, Lusha— You speak with the conviction of a cavalry officer and the soul of a romantic naturalist, and I find myself enthralled. Horses, yes—noble beasts! Each one like a sonata with hooves, all fire and poise. I knew you’d understand. There’s something divine in the way they carry both thunder and grace within the same stride, as if every gallop were a prayer uttered straight to Olympus.

Now, my molluscan companions—you ask with such tenderness, how could I not oblige? Currently, I house a modest but distinguished collection. There’s Captain Filigree, a proud and pensive apple snail with the contemplative air of a disgraced philosopher. Mildred Vesper, dainty yet ruthless, has a penchant for bubble nests and staring contests. And of course Barnaby III—yes, the third—who enjoys Wagner but only ironically. And, as I told you before, @chopinski-official

Each one named after long walks and longer thoughts. They are silent, wet jewels in my parlor of chaos. You’d love them. Perhaps one day you’ll visit and we’ll sit by the aquarium, sipping mint tea and critiquing each mollusk's moral character.

As for the Kilij—oh, how dramatically you speak of it! And rightly so. It is a beautiful menace, all curve and glint like a crescent moon that decided violence was a better pastime. I respect your restraint, Lusha. Not everyone is built for duels—especially not with wrists like yours, which are surely more suited to calligraphy, caresses, and the occasional firm grasp of a teacup.

But I must admit, there is something perversely poetic in the image of you—fragile-wristed and fierce-hearted—striding out to slash at willows in the half-light, exacting nature’s own strange justice.

So no duels, not yet. But I remain your admirer, your fellow beast-worshipper, and your co-conspirator in all that is oddly beautiful.

—Yours ever, The Mollusk Whisperer