Σάββατο 28 Νοεμβρίου 2015

Atlantas

Lying on my bed, that's after all where most of life happens, between those two stops out of the main road lay my thought. Stop one was the paper, the other was the dream.

I keep thinking about people. I keep coming back to them as if in some mysterious litany of salvation, as if I am the God waiting for humans to crucify me again, and through their holding of my hands, and the warmth of their fingers holding me together with the cross waiting to feel the love that longs my heart to be saved from the numbness of happiness.

This is where my thought had been. This is where it was born this afternoon. I lay down with it like a lover betrays his love, for the body, like a lover finds his own love unbearable to carry, I lay down and the thought lay on me like a foreign body. And I was not the God in this world that came to me. The people whose thought brought me there were not asking for forgiveness, the carrying of the sins was for them I found, some sort of obligatory exercise of empathy. Those people stayed silent, it is a praying and ordering, it is an imposing crowd I live among,  this world was wanting me to stand on my two feet, some mere exercise that its unbearableness can stand there with me, the foreign body hanging from my chest dead and me dying with it. And lying there with the body spreading over me still the evening found me still too, physically alive while some soul inside me screaming for the cross.

It is me who asked for these thoughts I know. I ask for them when happiness withdraws into some miserable search for causality. Some fingers on my hand moved, almost as if it was someone else's hand hanging on the side of the bed. I stayed, I let the cross fool me, dishevelled into some idle comfort of sadness.

What a weakness it was that I let myself dream for a moment the room full of doors opening, I dreamed the sound, I smelled the shoes walking in drenched in the rain and the weight meeting the eyes wondering where is it that my surprise was coming from. Is it surprise of affection reciprocated? Is this surprise of affection reciprocated in the same way, for it is only in those comfortable similarities that man understands a man. I thought the eyes of the man opening the door and the misunderstanding put me in that chair tied up, light blinding me and the blindness made it known that I knew what I wanted from the hand who got me there. The search brought him to the meeting of the eyes . It is not affection, that surprised me, the bringing of the feet and the hand to my doorstep seeking some fox's eyes, it was the feeling of the door opening and affection finding itsself incapable of lifting the weight that had me there, the instand urge to keep the door shut in the fear that she would find its way there, and realise it's insufficiency.
In the absence of love,
I was the Atlas.
For isn't love the wanting to lift of a human's weight? Or is it becoming the Atlas for wanting to lift the weight love wants to lift for you?

It dawned on me that in the absense of love I had to lift my own weight
It dawned on me that in it's presence I shall by now know that love is wanting to lift my own weight still.

Πέμπτη 12 Νοεμβρίου 2015

Sounds of drowning

A child running alone hungry for the hand of a stranger
my love, abandonment in a house of mirrors, still
fascinated by one’s own reflection, a drinker
of paradise.
I put paradise between us.

I put paradise into small perfume bottles.
I spray them on my naked skin and lie in bed enjoying the radiant feeling of them soaking in
like thoughts of hands
tangled against each other.

The drink poisons me in some glorious fantasy of illusions, and I become a queen I become a beggar and I become a starless 4 am gazing out your bathroom window. In that dream, I feel the carpet first caressing my back and toes then I feel it pinching 
as the weight lies above me.

How do I love? Words failing, words wounded lying everywhere. There must be words to document this. Are there words to make you feel it? I feel a writer. When I fall in love. The insignificance of everyday tortures becomes glasses full, 
drops running on the sides of my lips 
I hold them clumsily. I write about me. Not me the person.
Me the idea of a thousand clicking belts getting undone, of myriad fireflies stumbling in the garden dirt, of too many closing of the eyes to enjoy the thinking of us. 

Squeezed voices are coming out of the glass and I lie there murmuring them at a million rhythms.

How many ways are there to feel the want of you. I think them. I chase them. 
They slip off my mind relentlessly for I am, 
in this very moment, only a small fraction of consciousness at the backseat of your car peering at the back of your neck, escaping that dictatorship of your collar, thinking the vertiginous ride and mistaking it for the sweet emotion of together.

Humming.

I spill myself on that very back seat. I let the fabric absorb me all. I let the me be absorbed by the beams of light coming out of that small back window. Eyes closed to think. I wonder if you will. Will I tonight stain your delirium those 3 seconds of pacing the bridge to sleep. Will you roll in my breasts when I become a bird of paradise and you the feathers that fail me above the seas.

And when in the depth of the darkest ocean,

between two drownings

Will you be the creature to swim past me
and devour the corpse left
by the
burning
of the morning sun? 

Παρασκευή 6 Νοεμβρίου 2015

Sleepwalker

Walker of corridors narrow
airless
dayless
your clothes know the smell of night
your hands hold scars of hardwood flours
your eyes a thousand boxes
opened at once
with the time that covered them flying
lying in the corners of that small room you call heart
Walker of unsettling sounds
Your walk a prayer to tonight's silence
passing its child's fingers through my hair
Dawn finds your prints lying in some folding of the sheets
Dawn waits
Dawn pauses
Dawn wonders
where have you been sleepwalker?

Τρίτη 3 Νοεμβρίου 2015

Blindness

There is no beauty
hidden
here.
Only blindness
Blindness smeared all over the walls.
Blindness still.
Blindness silent
in the script of a made up language
sounding spoken confusion.
Shadows rise up the concrete
shadows climb the words.
One thinks the figures for people
man made names of Gods
calling themselves lovers
making themselves perpetrators
running from syllable to syllable
but finding no beauty to corrupt
but that of solitude, uncorruptable.

Cause there is no beauty here
of that of waiting dawns
of that of drowned ideas
of that firing hands of forgotten peoples
to shame the God we made up together
No
I am now almost certain that
there is
no
beauty here.

Certain
We've hidden from pain so well
dexterous morons
We've hidden
that no happiness finds
us anymore.

We live eternally
flowers growing in cupboards
parasites smiling in the darkness to miss us
missing the darkness smiling back sometimes
cripples of emotion for no eyes can see
so black and pitch is the ill sounding word
for so distant is the human experience

Our gray faces grow scared
our scared minds grow gray

and no beauty is born here
and no beauty finds us
and no beauty stands us
and its been so long since I've felt a man with eyes
that no wonder
no beauty
needs to hide
here
anymore.