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.


Note: The title is a reference to Puccini's "Nessun Dorma."