Il nome suo nessun saprà

The distal sun discharged some pointellated light
that dumped the graphics in his head. And bled
the world, like seeps of watercolor paint, like spume
afloat in French seascapes, where doves returned
to shore and dolphins lapped in gentle arcs,
splashing, shooting forth, again they lashed, again
like sun-streaked artillery fire, swimming artful loops
against the linseed canvas smeared in cochineal
and violent gold, the artist’s chef d’œuvre. The trash
engorged itself on phlegm and spittled air. And flared
the shock of white that thrashed his starving brain.
The stench, the stain, the bloat, the ripped-off face,
the shriveled flesh, the vomit. The piss of cats.
The bellicose swell of hunger bruised his cerebellum.
Vincerò.

The universe of blood that warmed his fingertip
converged upon the pistol grip.
The detonating sun split open his pupils
like light splittered through prismatic crystal
because he always was cut open,
slit throat to lip, splattered dry, and broken.
He breathed like an animal. No longer any sissy fag.
It wasn’t how they fell but how they flinched
that made him feel strong. It was the grandeur
that he needed. I could tell. No one else noticed,
but the bodies formed a perfect trapezoid
as the blood spooled in spirals, like the arms
of ancient galaxies, caressing a child as he cried.

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