Pasolini

He took several deep breaths For his heart was beating madly What cord would bind him A bit of music, a ribbon raving How should he be decorated A pair of clever wings fashioned in gold In an ancient garment Or the remnants of a child's coat Dissolving in a vat of tears He studied himself He had, in his perversity, welcomed such lamenting For he was feverish in the tears of anyone - of the adoring - cooled him Until he became perilous to stop their flow Tears also filled him with revulsion No one one could unresolve a soul composed with tears For one which surely drowned And it occurred to him, standing at this place Having no heir, no beloved That he was alone, and he must be to himself his own son And his own father, and his own compassion To love and to elevate oneself as a god Pressing against the blue and burning into form And all at once, the complexity of the self in its purity and its vanity Was revealed to him, burning into a form of its own And the sea turned around him And being given to the sea, amid sighs of release The sleeves of his white shirt billowed He had dressed the foam Purity, in the arms of the child as a smothered lamb A crushed joy For one moment, he saw the foam melt and mushroom A torso of cloud that hardened And he opened his shirt For he desired nothing more than to stretch across and be absorbed And his blood was sounding And his ears were ringing Til he was more than a little annoyed To find that he was weeping He spread his length of arms to the sun like a savage (savage) He stretched them into the dawn, into warmth (into warmth) And he believed he could do anything His elevated temperature would gift him with unlimited mobility Then nourished, refreshed, he would harden, expand And all the muscles were contracting And he could feel it coming And all he could do was draw what he could and shed what was wretched And all the muscles were contracting And images rushed with amazon force Some pleasurable, some liquid But glowing high, the helmet of skin And he could feel everything He could feel everything The purity wherein all forms of light and death are exposed And all the muscles were contracting And all the muscles were contracting And all the muscles were contracting And he was merging Drenched in pink, in vibrant, the skin pulled back Like the hand of God (where? ok) (where do I start) (alright, ok) Um, I'm ninety feet up, ninety feet up Attached to each foot, attached to each foot as the deck of a ship This part, oh ok Picking through the ruins with a stick That eased against my legs and the bottom of my feet In my pocket, the silky roll of my stockings Oh, my stomach The fluid music of the crowd that highlights the suspicious rivers And the ripple in the waters, just the rapids Just another floating dog, just another Floating dog I'm numb, numb and dumb, dumb Dubbed and brittle, I cannot speak I'm unable to, I'm unable to read my lines The filmmaker is blinded by the bright night He's going underground, he's going under, he's going somewhere An assassin goes undercover Fascist or lover, it doesn't matter Sins of Pasolini remain The sins of Pasolini remain even as he is lowered wrapped in a flag of flies It unfurls over there, above the wildflowers, erect fellows playmate Wrecked fellas And they move around under sticky plumage Their sticky plumage Some kind of mannequin dress Come on Come on Look, he's free, stumbling over the rocks Dehumanized, no ties with the shore He drags through the tired halls that lead to the grand ballroom His white shirt is rumpled (do it again, do it again) He lies On the beach Like a swan in the dust Smooth as a hawk I sup and plot and map out my territory This earth, this earth I've been eating I've, I've been eating Oh what, oh, what What? This earth I've been eating, ha I enter a ballroom littered with oversized film cans Shots are blown on the curve of an exit There's no way out, we're all alone together (come on, come on) We've been tracked, we are tracked within an expensive joke A majestic budget Regard, she's my face Regard, slots everywhere Pasolini, video and He lays in the sand In his white shirt Like a swan in the dust Film disintegrates Breaks into parts It's a ship, it's a motor, it's my heart (come on, come on, get up) Pasolini rising from the sea Victim of fascists Fascists, faggots, and the purity of his art It doesn't matter Pasolini is dead Showers of petals, flower girls deflowered Virgins skewered and devoured (alright, cut, stop, stop, cut, cut) Come on man, our mines are going And life, like film, goes on (what's your name?) [Italian chanting]