Monday, April 16, 2012

Absit omen

Someone said that we grow old when we stop partying. But that’s half the truth. The truth is that I grew old when she hit me right here, when she tore my diseased lungs and drunk brain right out of my life. She never was a woman of logic; she didn’t care about social norms or happiness. She was an animal, an animal that roared when feasting upon my sadness.

And that’s when I grew old. When she stopped partying upon my dead body. So the truth is somewhere in between. We grow old when they stop partying with us. And our parties grow darker; they crumble under drugs, under fumes of wet cigars, the kind that makes years-old smokers cough like tuberculosis victims. And how she stood right there, under the house entrance, pretty like a flower, her pearls dangling upon her white flesh, her chest rising hard when breathing and falling down in disappointment when she’d see me.

‘’You ain’t done yet, kid?’’ she whispered.

‘’You haven’t blown your brains out yet, kid?’’ she asked, twisting my soul like a small piece of wet, moldy bread.

I looked into her eyes that day, and what I saw was victims of war, torn children, struggling to keep afloat in a battlefield of tears, a battlefield of whispering. And these children were not children, not in the common developmental sense. They were torn out egos of men, men that couldn’t fight the beast inside her, who couldn’t touch her flesh without crumbling. They then stopped partying.

Someone said that you don’t grow old you mature. But that’s half the truth.

The truth is that once she breaks you in half, you don’t get to mature. You stand there, a child, a broken down animal, crying for hours with a feverish face. Someone, a young soldier boy, compared the agony of a bullet deep down inside your stomach with the feeling of her words, beating my heart until it stopped. They, the victims of war, objected. They threw big words, they ran, they fought, they wanted us to be objective. She was a woman after all, no big deal.

But to satisfy them all, I was ready to prove them wrong.

I fucking blew my brains out, the pain was good, the pain was good.

‘’Good job, kid’’ she whispered over my dead body.

Wednesday, April 04, 2012


βρε τι πειράζει, ποια είν'σκληράδα που βγάζει
και που σπατάλησα, που ξελάσπωσα
σταγόνες, ραβδώσεις, ιώσεις
και πως αντίκρυσα τ'όνειρα μου
στραβά ξεκίνησα, ποιος να μύριζε το λασπωμένο χώμα
ποιο πέλμα ασταθές, ποιο σχίσμα στην παλάμη
να μ'αγγίξει, μπας και σχίσει κι αλλο
τίποτα άλλο, μια εσυ κι μια το τζιτζίκι στην αυλή
βζ, βζ και εγω τραντάζω τα παντζούρια

χτυπάν, χτυπάν τα ξύλα κι οι σκλήθρες
γιατι, γιατι γαμώτο
να ξημερώνει εκεί, στα μαξιλάρια στην αυλή
να γέρνει στάχυ ηλίου στο βαμβάκι, πριν να αναπνεύσω
πριν να μου γίνει η υγρασία του ημερώματος
ραγάδα στον πνεύμονα, λεκές με αίμα
κι η μυρωδιά, 
η μυρωδιά των ερυθρών μου σκιερών
ματιών, μα τι ων
προς τι η σταγόνα τ'αγεριού να πλευρίζει τον τοίχο τόσο δα
πλευστό στο γκρι μονότονο
τ'αγκιστριού μου της ψυχής, και της ψυχής μου
το ψιλοβρόχι, το ηλιόλουστο
χτύπημα στο ξύλο κι οι σκλήθρες στο χέρι, τόσο δα.