Σάββατο 5 Ιουλίου 2014

STEREOSCOPY


She takes pleasure in listening to me,
she says, and I conspire with my silence
to confront my own pleasure,
to rob the world of it and put it away
in the safe of that memory of mine:
a little café in clearest distinction
from all its surroundings, finely atmosphered
in its tasteful integrity of time,
our holiest of places for no reason
in my imagination’s fluttering heart.

That way she can’t escape, one way or another.
Either she’s bound in my words
or she’s kept in the breath of my remembrance.
OVERCOME


How true it is, how true it is
it is so hard to grasp:
how the spheres of experience intertwine with maturing knowledge
in multiplying my feeling identities
by the inevitablenesses of understanding.

How true it is and how gigantic
in its every way,
that only flowers can bear its weight,
the flowers of simplicity and humbleness,
also the breathing of love and music.
OBSERVED IN NATURE


After the death of youth

and the alignment with time
there is not even time to remember
the countless loopholes that have comprised my castle of deception,
not even time to flirt with disaster.

And the integrity of the soul feels like an ironic coincidence,
puffed up by indifference and aftertaste,
waiting hopelessly to happen or not.

I so much wish I had an unsinkable ship
immersed in an oceanic yearning spinning along with the universe.
NIGHT SHIFT


I ate late.
Then, I had to work.
I did half of it-
I got sleepy, too early.
I lay in bed, read, couldn’t sleep,
because of my stomach,
perhaps.

It never pays to change the subject.

So I went downstairs, to shave, watch tv.
I went out, peed in the wind,
watched the night sky,
felt like a question mark,
then an exclamation point.

I ate again,
counting on the stomach pill I had taken,
the cola I would enjoy.
Another reincarnation of loneliness.

The day strikes back,
again and again,
so do the years,
like unsolved mysteries.

INVISIBILITY


A couple of months ago we were searching for a house,
and in each other we found a home for our search.
Furniture and decoration followed your lead and mine,
pushed by a trust invested with confidence.

Looking now in our mirror, I see tomorrow
as a forceful secret lying underneath your smile,
being a building block of my revelling in faith.

Your look’s invisibility resembles a projector’s light beam-
it’s reaching for some dream of fleeting moments
on a screen of anticipation and outright resourcefulness.
I AM NOT PHONEY


Full of ghosts, I besiege a city of ghosts-
a transcendental epic of timelessness in dissonant intervals.

Listening to the dying echo of our world
is plunging me into abyssal vacantness,
week after week, desolate shore after desolate shore.

Musing over your impregnable helplessness,
I’m left in love with your broken mirror
beside the extinguished fire of our hearth.
HUNG UP ON SOMEONE ELSE


How do I explain a dream?
It’s out-of-placeness and out-of-timeness,
all garnished with familiarity.
It’s frankness and eloquence,
all powered by deception.

Suppose I venture an analysis,
take it apart, break it down, decode it.
It’s still solidities colliding in midair,
and I am striving to take cover
under some conspicuous cloud of consciousness.

What if I get rid of my sense of correctness?
Then at least I travel lighter
and much more impressionable,
which the dream’s mysterious self finds intriguing enough
to lure me
with an even more unexplainable hint of lack of self.
FINE-TUNING


Voyager is inseminating the universe
as I am not being consumed by the fear of death.
In the tiny memory of its mechanical form
takes place a metaphysical transaction
between the improbability of my immortality
and the information of my fertility.

Thus my being alive is transformed
into the promise of an eternal compromise
between a warm machine and a cold depth of space,
leading, perhaps, to a more abstract mortality,
crowned by a touch of a spotless affection
and temporarily transported through the realm
of an almost non-illusory hope.
EYES ON INSTRUMENTS


My consciousness is being vented by your pores,
to be contained by the aspic mould of your carnality,
me being all over you in love, in sheer indulgence.

The way it doesn’t serve me, but is me
is the way your tongue infects my heartbeat,
the way your ear blooms as a crystal clear persuasion.

BODY DOUBLE


Your “life without limits?”
insinuated itself into the metaphor of my impressions,
frisking about in their ambivalence-
a metaphor doubled.

But life’s tenacity emits literal promises,
exact directions
that have to be harvested
as if by a swordplay between musing and insouciance.

The answer that matters is lurking
beneath all aspirations,
hoping to feed once more
on an unabridged perhaps edition of my misdoings.
A PRAYER THING


God within is not more fragile,
although it breathes in sickness;
God within is not less merciful,
although it’s hurt in anonymity.

I touch the wooden frame of my bed,
in amateurish prayer,
in lack of thoroughness,
reaching for safety in unconfessed desperation.

My grasp is empty then and weak,
but full of beloved faces somehow it manages
to sink that inconspicuous solitude of fear
into a vast oneness of relief.

Δευτέρα 30 Ιουνίου 2014

CONFLUENCE


A dead dog on the pavement,
a pigeon sleeping on a sill
inform infinite aspects of life’s mystery,
for in silence they speak,
in defeaning glory,
of the regretless lighting of the wick of meaning
by fear, by beauty,
as if by the firmest hand,
the pair of the trembling one
tenderly outlining the solemnity
of our perpetual defeat
by the unjustifiable working of things.
MATTER OF FACT


Struggling for words never ceases
to admonish me for listlessness,
although progress in finding them is always evanescent
by nature.

That is defectiveness on both parts,
its and mine, but raises no matter of correction,
or deliverance.

It is a matter of the essence being
the impression and not the essence,
therefore of purely superficial satisfaction
of festivities amid warfare.
TRYING TO MAKE CONTACT


I do not need the mime in my mind,
I’m not dead.

A sulphur is not a model of anything.
She’s just an accumulator of inconsistencies
that roar about in distress-
so helpful of originality,
which I can only wish for
under my earsplitting obscurity.

Oh please, mime of my mind,
illuminate me and
good riddance.