Friday, August 28, 2009

φωτορρυθμικά























αυτό το απίστευτο όργιο των φωτονίων συνέβη στην κρεβατοκάμαρά μου σήμερα στις 7.00 το πρωί με αφορμή ένα πάμφθηνο, αδιάφορο φωτιστικό που αγόρασα με κλειστά τα μάτια, για να καπακώσω έναν γλόμπο που κρέμεται από το ταβάνι και το οποίο ερήμην του έγινε η αφορμή να φιλοξενηθεί το Βόρειο Σέλας στο δωμάτιο για μόλις 15 λεπτά, πριν ο ήλιος ανέβει πάνω από το συγκεκριμένο άνοιγμα στο πατζούρι της μπαλκονόπορτας από το οποίο εισέβαλε το φως. και μάλλον αυτή είναι η πιο μακριά πρόταση που έχω γράψει ποτέ, αλλά ο ενθουσιασμός μου να αιτιολογήσω τόση τελειότητα δεν μου άφησε χρόνο για τελεία.
Πάντα βλέπεις να συμβαίνουν θαύματα όταν ξέρεις που και πότε να κοιτάξεις.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009



Artemis paused tired by the bank to watch the river flow.
She knelt, took a sip of water and put down her bow and arrows.
As she gradually unwound she petted her hound and watched sister moon
changing positions in the sky.

She freed herself from her hunter's dress, sank into the frozen waters to numb her body and awaken her mind.
Her thoughts, carried away by the current, slipped into another myth,
where she resurfaces as A
phrodite.


There is always some madness in love. But there is always some method in madness.

- F. Nietzsche


Monday, August 24, 2009





η νύχτα
-θάλασσα, πλανεύτρα ερεβολαξεμένων-
ανοίγει τα σκοτάδια της αχόρταγα στο χάος.
ο ήλιος
- καράβι της γραμμής, πάντα στην ώρα του-
εξασφαλίζει στην ανθρωπότητα το δρομολόγιο της γεωμετρίας.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Anonymous, political kiss



Auguste Rodin, 'the kiss


gustav klimt, 'the kiss'
While you and I

have lips and voices

which are for kissing

and to sing with

who cares if some

one-eyed son of a bitch

invents an instrument

to measure spring with?


e.e. cummings

Thursday, August 20, 2009

self-portrait


you need to come up with a poem about love
while three white robed experts peek at your brain.
for no matter their know-how,
they will never know how to spell the name of your inspiration.
the periodic banging sound you translate into a symphony of a hundred hummers
and make it the heart beating soundtrack of your verses.
so, you come up with a love poem,
that the bifocaled gods can not report in their synopsis
and then hang the snapshots of your mind on the living room wall.
only for you to know why your hemispheres make such a lovely sef-portrait.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

wake-up


soft
cotton candy
with sticky fingers
and a bright pink smile
of pure sugar indulgence,
a tiny fluorescent explosion;
under
the neon lights of a
Mary
-go -round sky-rocketing
in centrifugal spirals, and just
at the moment she crosses
a flashing 'wake-up' sign -
right over the entrance
to the hall
of mirrors-
there and then,
that was
'IT'
I
I
I
I
I

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

..:: Instructions ::..


Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before. Say "please" before you open the latch, go through, walk down the path. A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted front door, as a knocker, do not touch it; it will bite your fingers. Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing. However, if any creature tells you that it hungers, feed it. If it tells you that it is dirty, clean it. If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain. From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood. The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's realm; there is another land at the bottom of it. If you turn around here, you can walk back, safely; you will lose no face. I will think no less of you. Once through the garden, you will be in the wood. The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-growth. Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She may ask for something; give it to her. She will point the way to the castle. Inside it are three princesses. Do not trust the youngest. Walk on. In the clearing beyond the castle, the twelve months sit about a fire, warming their feet, exchanging tales. They may do favors for you, if you are polite. You may pick strawberries in December's frost. Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going. The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-man will take you. (The answer to his question is this: If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to leave the boat. Only tell him this from a safe distance.) If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe. Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that witches are often betrayed by their appetites; dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always; hearts can be well-hidden, and you betray them with your tongue. Know that diamonds and roses are as uncomfortable when they tumble from one's lips as toads and frogs: colder, too, and sharper, and they cut. Remember your name. Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story. When you come back, return the way you came. Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid. Do not forget your manners. Do not look back. Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall). Ride the silver fish (you will not drown). Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur). There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is why it will not stand. When you reach the little house, the place your journey started, you will recognize it, although it will seem much smaller than you remember. Walk up the path, and through the garden gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home.
Or make a new home.
Or rest.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Friday, August 07, 2009

poison arrow:



(a straight forward 'Never' with its point dipped in 'Forever')


Thursday, August 06, 2009



since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,

and kisses are better fate than wisdom,

i swear by all flowers. Don't cry

---the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other:then

laugh,leaning back in my arms

for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis




- e.e. cummings -


Monday, August 03, 2009

'cloud gate' by Anish Kapoor, (landscape art, Chicago)


Dreams are made of mercury.
The more you chase them,
the more they multiply
and slip away in variants
of what you originally
dreamed of.

diagnosis

My photo
i have nothing to declare, but a can of tuna