Wednesday, November 29, 2017

-.-




Toν Κυρ-Θανάση, τον έχω υπό έλεγχο.
Όποτε τον τσακώνω να σκάει μύτη από την γωνία,
- Τον κόβω από τρεις οίκους μακριά, όταν ζυγώνει -
Κάνω επιτόπου 184 μοίρες
(συμπεριλαμβανομένων των τριών και της κακιάς)
Και τρέχω στα ερωτικά επείγοντα.
Σκαμπίλια, βρωμόλογα, μώλωπες παντού, αγριάδες ανείπωτες,
ξανά και ξανά, μέχρι να πονέσει, και μετά
'Απνοιες.
Πολλές.
Άπνοιες.
Προπόνηση για την αναπόφευτη απαγωγή μου κάνω,
Κυρ-Θανασάκη -επίτρεψέ μου να σε μειώνω σε ανθυπό-.
Επειδή χλωμό το βλέπω να με πιάσεις στον ύπνο, ωραία κοιμωμένη.
Πρέπει να είμαι στις αρένες καλά προπονημένη.

Το φορείο, άλλο τρένο. Αυτό με το φως στην άκρη
Του τούνελ, αλλά με την κακή έννοια,
Εκείνη του δυστυχήματος, όχι της λύτρωσης.
Εκεί πάνω, μωρό, γυμνό και διασωληνωμένο, 
Σαβανωμένο με τη ρόμπα που δένει από πίσω,
Να σε κοιτάνε όλοι με μάτια ιατροδικαστή
Και να μη σε αναγνωρίζει καμία μάνα, να σε πάρει σπίτι.
Εκεί, πέφτεις στο παρακάλι και στην ελεημοσύνη.
Και μετά από τόση ανημποριά, γύμνια και συρρίκνωση
Αφού σου ρουφήξουν κάθε στάλα αξιοπρέπειας οι αγενείς
- το 'συν' είναι άλλων εδώ, εσύ μόνο στερητικά -
Στο δρόμο για τον κοιτώνα με τη διακριτική κουρτίνα,
Άντε να μπορέσεις να σταθείς στο ύψος σου σε ΧΧΧ,
Για ακόμα έναν αγώνα, έτσι, χωρίς παράστημα.
Εδώ σε θέλω.



Friday, November 24, 2017

Acari and soul-carriers

The creatures of a writer's home:
The invisible and the unheard.
The first you'd rather not see,
Because they are creepy and scary,
Even though under the microscopic lens
They can look as adorable as alien pets.
To know that they creep everywhere by the millions,
Is enought to make you deny they exist; live, let live and dismiss.
The others, the unheard, you have to be blind not to see.
To hear them though, you need a stethoscope for the soul,
And find out what it's like to live in a home that resonates
Like the souk of Marrakesh, in a busy morning, and never feel alone again.
Some of them would greet you, as soon as you get out of bed.
Others would be uninterested in your petty daily dues,
Turning their classic backs provocatively, with the snobbish air
Of an old divo whose glory has passed and therefore, dispises the present.
The Stranger, for instance, would rather not reaquaint you and remain
Faithful to his title, especially if you walk around in pyjamas.
You wouldn't dare converse with him first thing in the morning, either.
The ones that come in twelves,
It is hard too to approach and befriend;
They stand remote, defensive, introvert and avoid current events.
You haven't helped them socialize, extrovert and feel useful, you see,
Since you were a kid. So, in time, they grew protective of their grid.
Kept up, up, away and out of reach, in their rain jackets.
Isolation has transformed them into rigid retirees, those once soldiers.
They carry numbers instead of names and distant memories of action.
They speak the old dialect and are oblivious of the new world,
Better to leave them alone, sticking to themselves.
There is no spontaneous approach to their old ways.
You probably frequent to get what you want from their worst enemy,
The frivollousa and easy to get Wikipedia.
That is reason enough to keep away. They will hate you, anyway.
Novels,
Oh well, they are narcissistic belles.
The minute the smell coffee brewing, they start promoting their stories,
Trying desperately to catch your attention, like exhibitionist street-vendors.
Competing with each other, as their life depends on whose jacket
Will open first, to reveal its hidden goods.
The shelves they inhabit is of major importance, no doubt.
It is a class society in which they live. With good and bad hoods.
Windows are more favorable than dark hallways.
The Lady in Camelias would ally with Lady Macbeth for a place
Next to the armchair. She would force the War of the Worlds
To end its long occupation of the most precious location
In the living room, if she could only use her frail hands.
Novels will turn yellow, waiting for a decent place. Most of them
Never manage to live next to your heart and end up migrating
In dark, humid boxes. Even Alice will get lost again, eventually.
Poetry?
Welcome to the fools, the priestesses, and the prophets of their race.
All quiet when they are restrained tightly in their jackets, face down preferably.
You may feel secure when Wasteland is closed and Endpoint is somewhere far.
On the dark shelf across the wardrobe possibly, along with A Further Range.
Poetry is usually lying peacfully down, instead of standing up, in line.
As if resting, or sleeping. As if ready to open up the lip of Pandora's box,
If provoked by a stumbling, drunken weakness.
They are the unsettling clairvoyants of the printed ones, even though
Their appereance is often subdued and tediously simple.
But alas, how magical are their entrails!
A single verse can blast you like a grenade,
The same one that soothed you like warm milk, two days ago.
Be aware of every word. It might talk of a past while telling you your future.
Poetry doesn't care where it lives. It doesn't need to be near you. You do.
History and biographies;
Τhese are the most predictable and honest of the lot.
What you see is what you got. What once was and now is not.
They are the illustrious, working class of books.
They are time's worth, accessible and give a lot in return.
They are companions like dogs and not unpredictable
Like cats and Poetry.
Biographies are as comfortable as welcoming mats.
They keep away dirt, keep your conscience clean and at ease
And do not poke the heart.
They are a third party's conundrum.

The unheard are heard until the lights go off.
They turn mute when your presence is no more and doors close.
They will always hope going to bed with you, one day, if they get lucky.
They know you keep a harem on your bedside table. The few, chosen ones.
Who in their turn, they end up too outcasted in the outskirts of the precinct.
Between the chosen ones there is a newest fling and an obsession that lasts.
The first will be consumed like a lover and equally dumped like one.
Its days in the harem are always numbered.
The obsession is a steadily favorite Poetry book that whispers the prayer
That puts you to sleep. It will not be leaving your bedside for a while.
Until something happens, and you start praying to another god.
This one will never recite again. It becomes the living dead among the lot.

The dream of the unheard ones is to be caressed by your eyes.
Their only solace, is the company of acari, with their tiny, senseless sounds.


Sunday, November 12, 2017

post mortem

Be an asshole all your life
Be abusive to your wife
Be a bully to the neighbor
Never do a friend a favor.
Cause the less you are to give
The less for you the rest will grieve.
After you're six feet under,
done for good; a burried blunder.

When you're dead and gone
None will ever feel alone.
If they've put up with you a lot
Dry-eyed they'll see you to your plot
Longing for the party after -in your memory-
Featuring the drinks and the savory.
Then, the usual mood, back in the hood,
For their daily quest for food.

Be as bad as you can get!
It's the kind ones that we fret.
For the more humane you are
While alive, you raise the bar,
But once absent, things reverse
And your kindness turns to curse.
For the ones you left behind
They're as good as sick and blind.

The fate of those ones you could heal
By your departure it is sealed.


diagnosis

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