deep redness of the sunset:
Is it the sunset or is it blood?
A question posed by the sun, or a slaughter?
It’s no longer there…
a “We’ve Moved” sign placed up high…
some things can’t be moved immediately or afterwards
such as the pages, folded at the edges, to be read less
than to be recollected,
such as the queue in front of the cash register
such as the backbones of saints
I search for the bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street…
terribly ill by its absence
after all, this is where the hours passed
their hours with me, and the hours search insistently
for that which can’t be moved or migrated,
which oppresses and suspends generations…
A little further from the light cast by the lamp there begins another world, an unknown world – who has ever gone there? who has every returned from there? – and then there are nights – ah! how many adventures there are dreams, so many that you life becomes insignificant (and hence dangerous) –
Here books and bookshops
have a distinct fragrance
like incense rising
to a venerable pious congregation.
Here people and palaces
have an ancient architecture
Roman and Romanesque at once
not led astray by flights of abstraction
only trusting in the everyday and concrete
joyfully signing in the underground
at peak hour
or biting their lips to not let in
The snow that falls outside!
like the ice-vendor of death
bloodshot from fever
A little out from Athens there is
the Hotel “HOPE”. Each night
in this Hotel, at midnight,
two ghosts cry. This bad luck
drives the hotel manager to despair,
for as you might appreciate
these goings-on drive customers away
Everyone is asleep
and I lie awake
I thread silver moons
through a golden string
and I wait for dawn
for the birth
of a new god
The café where I drink my coffee
only I exist
and so the café is completely empty
The rupture in the voice propels the course of the blood clot and at the summit there gapes the joy of the coming of another long-headed woman. Her petals folded and the necklace she bent over to grab provokes and protects her copulation far from the corncobs and velvet of the seashore.
Prostrate and with sugar on her lips she lay down on the luminous wreath of love. It was not long before the summons was heard. Initially two birds took her, followed by the wires of the compassionate conspiracy, and finally she was taken away by five roosters which looked like horses that were literate, and they touched her private parts.
The purpose of our life is not servility. There exist infinitely better things than even that statuesque presence of the bygone epic. The purpose of our life is love.
Bitter thorn The young lady I encountered in my drawer appeared and then vanished. In her place a wisp of…
Better even than the soil we give to the friends of water lilies, the getaway signal was spurned. Lying down she feeds her donkeys and the lean ravens without abiding in the injustice of fierce appeasement. That’s why she will still bloom, that’s why she will cry out, that’s why the supine and spineless men and all the secret ravines will be demolished and she will remain a lustrous and likeable crucible thriving in the colours of matter.
When with the weight of the wind which sweeps away the brooms between the mothers’ legs the shooting star trumpeted the last commandments of the god-men, the phoneme proudly stood up and with the suppleness of complete automatic subtlety carried felicity away towards the waters of an enormous tide.
…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.
N.N. Trakakis The sky and its thousand stars stare back in sadness as do I in the pre-dawn hours resigning…
And the episodes continued with minor variations, the epidemic advanced,
confused messages, we didn’t know who they had left out,
the saints in fear took refuge in the calendars, scarecrows no longer took off their hats
when the trains passed by,
large membranes appeared under the women’s arms,
I’ve had to learn a new language
to write you this
and you’ve had to learn a further language still
to read it.
There are those, I’ve heard, who can read
the weather patterns
this could all be false, I know
the brilliant light in the park
on that Saturday
no promises, not today
stranger things we could not say
but you could see
the hand that held you
Do relationships ever die
or do they merely fade to grey
losing their colour
their vibrant glow and fervor
refusing nevertheless to let go
I now depart.
Tonight we said our Goodbyes
my farewell gifted
as a discourse on Truth
The sky and its thousand stars
stare back in sadness
as do I
in the pre-dawn hours
resigning the world
This morning we could sense
the sun was powerless to rise
Looking outside the window
as the instructor was busy explaining
tenses and moods
our gaze fixed on the cypress tree
handfuls of snow caught in its outstretched palms
as the instructor’s voice rebounded from the walls
In a time when words are wasted. Repeatedly. In a time when one must struggle against becoming yet another living platitude. Defiantly. When everyone has depression, and pills will help you find yourself. Predictably. I look up at the skies of the infinite winter, attempting to read God’s handwriting. Confusedly.
sun sight light
there is no black
one step forward
two steps back
Outshining the statues of Hathor and Ramesses II
truer to life than the coffin lids picturing Osiris, Isis and Horus
the bright Aegean light
revealing the half-clothed and voluptuous Aphrodite
Demeter seated on throne
Apollo holding kithara
She who sits there
looking out at the planes
as they ascend and descend
what is she thinking?
so much for the sunshine
it always is
still have time for summer
but how many winters will it take
Wherever I go, whatever I do
I carry within me my Father:
that look, that sigh
of one thrown onto alien land
without hope of returning home
for home has ceased to exist.