Night from within night
We change hands like a coin
Our sprouted laughter
The movement of the gulls away
From the sea
Some waves reach perfection
The eye of the orphic raft
Is glancing eyeless and unsuited to the sinkage
I'm in a state of alert
I'm aware of my interest
Same as the night
I waste no minute
A cogwheel falls in the sink
I'm breaking down in front of the mirror with a
The oncoming man.
Sky threads sew me
Into the cavities of time
I'm the tree of the remedies
With roots in the western and the eastern poles
I'm the weather in the most fearful cities
A radio transistor in the shantytown a luster
Of bronze to the childless palace
A command forgotten
A map folded
The first apple of history
Ever learning from the venerable propagandas of the souls
In the buildings of intellection
I make fun
Under certain circumstances
The light the bombshells the balloons
But nothing from all these does not thrill as much as
The sun disks between the shopping
The statue of a liberty at the feet of some eros
I'm loaded with scandals that take form
Upper and lower levels
Messages of life like tidewater
Iridescences that give you fear for seconds
Meanings with not even a poem
Thumps when you are absent on the door
Death in the roses under the cold
Lights in the flower shops of the night
The coal fire of a carefree visionary.
Something is heard of
To look out.
I cover the poem like
Grass covers the grave
Like devil covers the milk
The apathy of a gargoyle
Lonesome internal crowds.
I find my place via words
Burried pillars that delay
The wave to the fire
We have big mouths ideas
Who dislodge from icebergs
And become headlines
The earth that echoes our shatter
Continents devastated by dreadful
In the bar I get drunk with a bottle of tears
It's beacause of the mucus of some enclosing phallanx
Variety of dimensions
An orchestration of ceased windmills
New fortunes of planets
The climax of the worship of modern verse
Leads to an attic of rats
The mob's shocking feeling of tedium
Since be spared of madness
My existence becomes a religion
From the unction of some tender injustice
Lust like diamonds plod.
I'm typing under the heaviest burden
The solidification of emptiness
As if there are no other elements
Like the lions race
Before enter our thought
Under the shadow of this
Bust of time.
Someone from the rudeness
Is spinning golden courses of words in the air
Vulva of universes
Discord of characters
A page of expansion written
By the fashion of death
Spread wide open -
Pedagogics, the restructures
Of the libraries and the real heroes
With bad outcome -
I surmount the evil counting with whispers a
I grasp life with my hands and is warm
The future is manning in the papers of the poet
With the tangible and the unreal
With the ivy and the wall
With the mouth of the nightingale in the blast of the storm
The temporary gives birth to
I could think
Doves at midnight driving a police car
And I for no reason
No reason I kiss you
Put my signature
I cut a loaf of emptiness
And I lie esteemingly on
Nothing solid in the marvelous
We bind the sun with a wire
For half an hour
We trumpet it around
Letters big letters small
We drink them
We laught at them
We grind them for dust
Even if the sun is made of cashmere
And comes out from the attic window of our belly
When nightbirds guard our oblivion
In inflammable forests.
A wooden statue with cheap offerings
Is unexplicable raised outside the house
And inside yes all the forms of the crushing chronology;
To connect you must be connected
Think on the basis of anatomy
Think of the brothers who lay in absolute indolence
Except the fact that a poem may someday
May be everywhere written
Its natural origin means something
It's an invitation
For Parthenon to find a place
With the gold of the american bank to
Make shoes or sweet nothings
To bury everything into a dwarfish earth.
Albatros emerge from the earth.
At dawn the star of my prayer
Got shored up
All that happens in the world is minor
Pompously washed up obscurities
Inside the thought of an inconceivable reflection
Flaming of the voices
Pulleys and counterweights
Secrets of the movement of life
Wholeness powerless fairly worn
Of the lexicons
The wild nature
The whirls of declination
The walled glare -
Pain is a rock
That crumbles into my blood creating
Signal before the eclipse
Of the tones and the sequence of the routes
Wishes on postcards that don't represent
Ancestral skulls debase and roll
To philanthropy -
From under you do not understand much.
More unrefined points
Tissues clapping and be clapped
Into continuities of posterior darkness
For denigration and evident estimation.
What carpe diem restrains you away.
Pose in the gallery of meat.
You have such tremors, while you see me drinking
The fuel of the immaculate camellia like water.
We are of the plurals.
We curse the destination
We are also immobile
Presences less and less recognizable
Like remnants with a slant look.
There is no meaning anymore.
Say their names -
Classicism, oligarchies to the dissimilar.
We are the grand-grandchildern of some strangers
We don't surrender the soul
We leave a message a riddle of explicity
Two three steps away
You are alone:
The incident of birth
The signs of the times,
The trails of life the meditation of activity
The lights are out at dawn
In darkness the so many ways of light,
Force is the female of life
The temptations of Saint Anthony
The gallop of the Remington
The tail of the whale
At the beach umbrelas striped
War and profit
You pay you get paid
The comunication of the masks -
Conceptions of the many simultaneously
The extra large do not fit to us
It's a shame -
In the third decade of life
I revive from the preservation
Of an obscure rock-painting
Where everybody reads
Line with difficulty.
The joy and sorrow of the idols,
But yet the thought that some day
Man will make it through -
We say over and over
Not that some day. but now
The whole being at the spectacles
In the name of some wretched ontology
But I prefer a drink from golden hands
And outside the sleet to look like ribbons.
Dressed in the whole atmosphere
In every breath.
That's how they call them: circumstances of the currents.
They know us all over the universe by
Our proper name
So you are aware of the perception why
I exploit harshly my existence
That depends on you.
Together we put
Fire in the storehouse -
Moistend grains of salt and moon-twigs:
The way a decoy
With the decency of a suit
Becomes a sport a hobby of tomorrow.
Unregistered junctions of individualisms:
An enormous value misconcieved
Like a mystical religion -
I am one of the Symbols.
The fields of the blossoms the turnings of times
The sword of the signature of poet
My page however
Is a beauty solid
Dangerous to read -
The pictures are no longer count
This is the new poem
WHAT I' M ABOUT TO DO
Than the rain that falls like steel
I have briefer fortime
Now I am myself
I live in the smallest room
I do not tidy up
I stare at the hairs of my feet
Play with the shadow mislead the light
Listen to the street
I get started from where
To begin -
If you only knew
What I'm about to do.
I feel like the dust in the corners -
The woven hairs on the floor
Yours and mine.
The syncope of the moment that
Lassos a hunted life.
It's about a point of time
Unknown to readers and critics.
I'm trying to surpass it
Writing with cigarettes
Lentils and whiskey.
After so many manuscripts
I like most my fat aunties
Who say I' m gentle
Whatever passes through me passes through death
My fat aunties are heralds
Speak to unknown flowers who deepen
Sonnets recall their music
Fabulous eggs of existence break
In the karmic antechamber mouth of the viper
Into an anaesthetic world I deepen
With my bagpipe dialect
The pulse meter of a new fantasy
Can fit into my paper suitcase
If soul wishes the soul to set on fire
I have a quick thought though slow
A foreboding vision of language
Writing in the after-the-rain past
Everything is a terrible truth
The night after.
Sun sounds its rust
Spreading like a bloody palm
Uneasy wrinkled and curved
Immense presentiment clandestine
Bellies and guts glitter
On the sundials
I' m standing for a while
I could be a painted
Humanity could watch
My canvas and wonder
With half-closed eyes
About the natural light
That flickers behind
My miraculous tail.
Tracer with second hand books
I deny the microwaves of new poetry's
My removal from the cross is a matter of mood -
Copper birds are pushed by the dynasty
Of the wind
The world empire
Composes the only conspiracy_
I am an aspirant of a sarcophagus
Who gapes every midnight
Foresaying an unusual future
Pressing its bawly breasts
Between the uneven photographic gates
Of my visionary pagoda.
Skull skull I call you
Opening of blossom at the hour of death
Human is one accident
Two contrary saxophones
Three drunken moons
Four extinct animals
Five cheap feelings
Six mythical monsters
Seven sacred paths
Eight basic verbs
Nine tragic visions
Ten carving the unmarked
Αυτός που διαβάζει με όρους ανοχής μπορεί να με διαβάσει, αυτός που διαβάζει με όρους συμμετοχής όχι.
"Poetry is the only adventure that's worthwhile outside itself"
- Yannis Livadas
The one that reads with terms of tolerance can read me, the one that reads with terms of attendance can not.
"Poetry is the only adventure that's worthwhile outside itself" Y.L.
- Yannis Livadas
- ► 2011 (150)
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