let us go then, under the sky.
let us go to bliss framed by apuan alps.
let us go then, searching for distant reply
under a tuscan sky.
an evening of finery hunched in adagio,
born under a lucky star. we cut through sawtooth sedge
beating the floor in approval, at torre del lago.
voices lift... as costumery fell over the ledge.
clouds peeled back the curtains,
let us go through deserted streets
to find our muttering retreat
and burning inferno.
between massarosa and the tyrrhenian sea,
staged the world naked on screen.
in the grande, the men of no country come and go,
listening to puccini resculpt rhapsody’s blow...
the white gowns of indecency elect to remove,
the white hues of heroes twisting good and evil.
it is here... where you can move dark and leisurely,
can contemplate the mindful fate,
with black and white robes of the kings of hypocrisy.
two faces turn where east meets west,
so the cast refused to perform until she removed her muslim veil.
audience of imminent threat under deep surveillance,
waits for the moon to heal with the wine of joining.
lovers jump from the stage as stags leap
pulling hair, running the streets, calling warning
and the veils settled down and fell asleep.
in the grande, the men of plenty come and go
listening to puccini sculpting melody’s tow.
cups and lips,
cups and lips fill the first act with debauchery.
cups and lips, cups and lips, full of treachery.
licking their tongues to the corners of evening,
the two faces of janus conduct the orgy.
peacocks swinging on foucault's pendulum
performing like the nuns of st. ambrogio,
for marsh orchids and pink hibiscus.
enchanted work from the little book of vulgar libretto,
another love story that ends in tragedy.
inspiring the maestro to bliss, we are told.
hanging from his feet watching children in the sand,
the beach yields to the hand
that works the hills marbled in white gold,
and the opera glass of free will cuts the finger,
asleep in the sun...pine stings and malingers.
and who am i, who am i?
who am i,
against the world that must go through hell,
against the fighting factions casting spell?
and time will tell, time will tell…!
sitting in tuscany displaced,
matching pleasures for pleasure’s sake,
all the men want the same,
even the voyeurs on the watchtower,
and the bilderbergers. all the luxurious elite
came not to meet but be entertained.
scene two of blood and murder,
tis the hour of trial and error and time will shake power,
and time will end the long exile,
on the stage of man’s bible.
all the beast of revelation
and the watchers watch. forgetting the overture,
do i dare, do i dare,
dare disturb the universe?
and in their hour of despair they blew themselves up,
suicidal arias barely past the recitation...
the men of the grande sat storied,
tasting the bitters of glory...
time will heal, time builds
time lies coming to crescendo.
the opera in two nights
delivers time and his cruel illusions,
and they have met before...
many times on many battlefields.
the same audience take the same seat
of composed chorus.
the opera resumed for the second night!
on the scale... time will tell,
time will tell,
if raptured seria will release or cast the spell.
captured in immoral plots at blue twilight,
she pleads come see her.
the veil returned to center,
and that is all to be remembered...
all to be remembered,
open air of embers.
the nuclear finale delivers,
he is dead...all religions are finally dead!
time to believe in everything...
the foundation -the base, the awakening
opening eyes arising,
three more phases to definitive victory.
used like liberal parties use small people,
used dark knights bolstered,
used like libretto by puccini and verdi.
a magnificent composition,
bled its final drop this second night.
all the men of the grande sheltered in riches,
magically spared on her beaches.
emotion and tears... emotion and fears!
oh! my homeland, so beautiful and lost.
oh, remembrance so dear and fatal.
then came the golden harps,
lightly followed the real burletta.
she played the beeches role
to veiled perfection, sprinkled confection
sweet delirium in arts imitation.
a life of distraction marks her soul,
destroying the jungles of no limitation.
the ultimate CNN (sin)
stunned the silent claquers,
protected behind the gates of torre del lago
with raptured castelletto.
the men of the grande called, bravo! bellissimo!!
guiding motif repeat, bravo! bravo... rescue a michelangelo!
behind the masque, a mad scene.
high drama trinity,
a festival
in the wild weeds of harmony,
blew the caustic money note.
watching a total eurasian burn
lamentations on jerusalem
surrounded, the seven hills took their turn.
not a cluster... but a troop.
the smell of native land singed,
as a few nightingales closed the hinge.
mermaids sing each to each,
leaving the stage to reach the beach.
go deep! go deep! dive below, for the water boils
wreathed in red seaweed.
the long nuclear winter blows dark winds.
when will we hear their song again,
and watch them comb white waves with their fins?
all the seers, all the fellows,
and the veiled prophet of the two night opera
hang mute upon the willows
mute upon the willows.
