Alone, from the depths of the drawer…
…the second mistral took off. The motions of the slender hairbrush against my self were successfully negotiated. A tropical warmth, but one transformed before martyrs who had been set on fire, was definitively registered in the proceedings of the giant warriors, instead of the worthless honour of an esteemed odalisque. On her legs anklets glowed, on her face tears, on her breast three droplets. A more beautiful sight the wandering Jew had never before encountered, not even the model of the corporate state of the past, because the threads which would tie her legs did not exist and the nails had not been premeditated. The system had not yet crystallized. It merely gave greater liberty to the liberated and relieved the peddler’s pain from yesterday’s orgies.
Poems by Andreas Embeirikos
Translated by N.N. Trakakis