Farinelli

(IL CASTRATO)

He makes me want to wring my hands and wail

like a good catholic school girl

preserved

and deathly pale.

He makes me want to come alive

(inside of my own death)

burry myself in bones

and breaths;

barricade myself

in a sound

(so beautiful)

that I've never even heard the ring of its melody.

The biology of his bones

burns me

into hope;

that I would let him lay

with me

and be

the maimed

Castrato

that he is.

His voice is tinged,

tainted,

tender,

terrorizing me

through dreams

(I'll bleed all of the words

that I have written for him

-dedications

made

in

honor

of his

death-

and wait

for all the words

to form the right poem.)

I let his hand guide me

godlike

my Farinelli

of the forsaken

shaken

hand of little boys

christened, and

castrated

in the name of their art.

The slant of his eyes

allude me

(I don't care about his lack

of lust

or his childish

nature

with me.)

When I read between the lines, or

listen

behind the words.

I'll seduce him with my death chant

how death found me once

to whisper

new life

into my poetry;

how

death

is so opulent;

he's like anesthesia,

I fall asleep to dream of him

nude

in his

naiveté.

How he leaves me breathless

and with nothing left to say.

I'm silent

(staying)

when he whispers

that all is

what may

come to be so.

But

he

and

I

are slightly disjointed where language is concerned.

We commune

through art

and agony;

the scars

that scrap us

across the sidewalk

shouting.

Oh, how we shouted!

I let Farinelli read my palm

and preach

its fate to me

with smiles

and giggles

to jeer

away the tears

that I cry

for his lost genius.

He was

a master

after all

so

let the master be.

No matter where I go

its him

that I see.