INVITATION
It could also be called "allegory".
And he talked about it. As of those fin de siècle triptics, between liberty and Segantinism. Because, meanwhile, there was an irrepressible vegetable nature, and a celestial nature which dazzles ("fragile heels and leaves red gold and violet"). The figures of them were enamelled; And the garden ends here, in its quiet and brilliant hydraulics, like the keyboard of a piano.
There were also emptied cloths, where was passed noisy distress. There was, however, still however, some trace on the floor, a losenge ("a pearl out of my blood perfumed by the lavatory"); There were also skittles in ivory and some green cloth, as would have pleased, in an allegory, the later Bellini;
One could therefore say "allegory". And we talked about it.
There three of us, friends. And the house of Lillo, at Sutri, so warm with sounds in April! But the Sonata form quickly seduced us and he then talked about a quartet.
Oh! We had in our heads garden music by Poulenc, certainly. Because then we thought of the ebony of clarinet and a certain silver of clavecembalo, replaying Casella ("Tears of a boy expanding on the flanks of mimosa"); We were not afraid of appearing impudent.
They were signs to be interpreted, as we entered inside their open gate. It was just the idea of a gap to make us think of the music ("youth which flourishes with hard thighs").
Because in an allegory everything is sumptuously set out, lodged like a cameo in its oval cake of light;
No; here there were effusions; even chases. Enharmonic bridges, ambushes, recesses. Tricks. Rivulets. Prisons and pearls.
Kisses that were soundless: left only the trace squeezed of significant contact; Oh,solid, certainly!
There were furrows and the thick of the rose ("I go searching languidly among males").
Then it was as if we had been warned, for the first time, the rustling inside these lines.
The boy who loved (him) shook, crackled like the bark of pine. Lillo resounded, like a shell echoing to his flesh.
He bit too, the boy ("the embrace of a vigorous male"). He left marks on the skin; Lillo returned, with a damasked pattern of it. Alabaster and dahlias. By night and day chickens that do the same steep path ("hard stare of an unknown person among the leaves"; "the gentleness of the meeting penetrates my trouble"). We thought then that it could be a music because the knots remained, like overlapping notes; hulls that contained the infinite possibility of a sentence. And here, taciturn hemistichs, pendulous; transpositions, in the sign, of heights and timbres gnawed at the skin ("On the thighs without looking he placed timid hands").
And the music, in the clear division of attacks and finali, a little austere, provided the outlines of a story ("the young boys were my heroes").
The "movements" were indicated, in their unfolding, to the opening of every curtain. Four movements without chiaroscuro, in pine-striped light, like sinopia;
It is a red script, with rubrics marked, which indicates without forcing (and without comforting). It surrounds the happening; Also, a little, it seems, it nurses. It cleanses (without fraying) in the free play of soft synapsis that the themes connect, they ripple them even ("in the scant joy of winds").
There are moments in which a design shines; an offense is erected; quiet finds a palm where to hold, where the surface of the lines becomes granulous, supine without acid ("pleasing to the feminine in me, a part present in me as a prerogative of my male diversity");
We concentrated on the music. Then, the fugue: subject, counter-subject . and this last, will it not have as Object desire?
Theme, then, of S.O. (crasis for Sodoma? Would that Sodom existed. A most solid and flourishing city, morover, like all the cities described by Herodotus); A Lacanian theme, even, in a territory and refraction. Of a dominion and a spora ("Vespasiani lit up enchain the breath"; "in the folds of cotton the indecency of semen").
For lover and loved one, oh how many gardens, how much heat, how much flowing! Yes, there were thresholds of polichrome marble and storage dazzling.
On the other hand, not a marine fresco cemetry. No, here Valery offered only bordering, prisms for Narcisus. Lillo sees the infinite as a coalescence of sounds in the water, curve, mating. He knows nothing of of tranquil roofs to break, nor much about antlers, of the male stamen, I say, there where he urges pollen. And of stages, certainly, there Montherlant sets beauty and its test. He does not cry any longer.
Seek heightening of pleasure, illumination("your beauty is sovereign rejects the drama"; "the objectivity of perfect union".).
Was it still worth condensing? Asserting that the theme is love of young boys, that "liquid disorder" (introduction) so daringly and limpidly objective , love of the male that young boys open in anxiety only because it is an intimate enjoyed seal?
That this love envisages reciprocal rape, a theft of the night (First movement), a whirlwind that is Plays? That the turgidness, revealed, surprises (Second movement) and as a marine background banks,urges vigilance and predilection?
That there is then a sovereignty, a wisdom of lovers (Third movement) they know how to contain themselves in transparence and opacity, and that the eroticism is a changing of colours in diaphany?
And that the night, (Fourth movement) is a converse insomnia that preserves, in nitidness and in calculation, like an astronomer, the course regulated by bodies as by the heavens?
Sandro Bartolucci
Like a puff
Come un soffio il vento sulla vita
Del suo amaro
Anche quello fa amare.
Il volo lascia
La sua traccia nel pensiero
Come musica soffocata dalla noia
Si trasforma in desiderio
Il fiore colto nei miei sogni
S'apre oggi all'aurora della trascurata esistenza
La vertigine mi avvertirà
De mio ritorno al gioco.
Va cercando tra maschi
Mollemente un rigagnolo di vita
Natiche strette nel lino sgualcito
Col tempo che non ha tempo
E lo sgomento d'essersi perduto.
Sul pavimento l'orma del vento
Che ha condotto sogni
All'arido silenzio
Nascosi il volto nelle pieghe dell'oblio
Sedotto dai tuoi occhi di viola autunnale
Compiaciuto del femmineo in me presente
Prerogativa alla mia diversità di maschio.
Sei cresciuto in me
Nutrito del mio sogno
Identità del mio destino
In te annego la passione
Spinge il desiderio
Un amore incontestabile
L'oggettività della perfetta unione.
Respect of the time
Manichini bianchi
Di paglia strappata
Deluse speranza nella luce del tramonto
Silenziosa accusa
Immobili ma vivi
Narcisi degli eden mentali
Scontate emozioni
Silenziosi lamenti di angosce invecchiate
Notte silente
Uragano di pensieri
Blaterar di vecchie signore.
Qui dove ogni pietra è ieri
Dove ogni foglia muore
E poi rinasce ogni stagione
Qui dove tutto tace come allora
Vivo il mio tempo
A costruir la storia
Si posano
Sul corpo d'un fanciullo
Che riposa
Perle di rugiada d'una aurora vanitosa.
Tre fanciulli ho portato
Col sentiero ad un prato
Coi lampioni e le stelle
Coi sogni e le perle
In quell'ora in cui l'anno finiva
Fra coriandoli e gioie e infante giungeva
Fasciato di sete
Bagnato di doglie
L'anno novello di santi e di troie.
Chambres
Viola raggio d'acqua fusa
verginale d'oro in nulla
terge affusolata oscurità che culla
beltà in miele e mela in sera rossa
veranda di gerani che impreziosisce e sbocca
l'enfio cielo elastico e annoiato
vissuto in versi che ho tardato
Taglia il meriggio in ansia lieve
il profilo cremisi che goccia
imbriglia indistinto
in note incurvate
il gemito il canto e il rimpianto
insaziato.
Di cancello in cancello
indurisce il musicale
un'eco afona goccia accenti
che in me poggiano ombre
lo smarrimento e la voglia
di un tramonto terso
Inaspettata primavera di benessere
soffice in petali
fiaba caotica vissuta in vicoli e piazze
dentro il dolore e le cose
sorprendente e altera aperta in semi chimera
vespro anche della sera
Stringo una lacrima
nel lurido silenzio
ove entrato sono
fino al mistero
colorato e solo
come uccello in volo
mai confuso
Un turbinio di gigolo
come conchiglie sulla sabbia
attraggono splendenti e rari
