22 Οκτ 2018

You press buttons.


You press buttons,
everywhere buttons.
Instead of a loud
what the fuck is this?
and then an is this shit love?
you say order some pizza maybe?
Bacon? Onions?
You follow the first random girl home -
some Maria something or some George.
You press -or not press- buttons
to declare I like it,
I am attending.
Instead of telling her
to keep the baby,
you follow the glorious museum of modern art
- I know my art shit,
I know the painter of Guernica.
No museum will come to your bed at night
and kiss you in the back of your neck
-You don't care, 
you eat
you pray
you die
you press buttons.




Έσπασαν τα νερά του ποιήματος
και ξεπρόβαλλες με το κεφάλι
Είσαι αυτό που βγαίνει
όταν το ποιήμα ανοίγει τα πόδια του
Είσαι κυρίως τα κόμματα 
Είναι εξαιτίας σου 
που στα ποιήματα βάζουμε κόμματα
να τεμαχίζονται 
στο χειρότερο 
Εκτός αν νόημα είναι να λείπεις
Έσπασαν τα νερά του χωρισμού
Και πρόβαλε το ίσως με το κεφάλι
Μια αγάπη-μωρό
Που θα το βαφτίσουμε 
όπως θα μας προτείνει η μητέρα σου
ένα απόγευμα


Morning kiss.

Your unburied kisses
out and about
like the brother 
of Antigone
You can't find 
you never lost.

25 Σεπ 2017

This window over there.

We open it together
from time to time
to watch the view
but there is no kitchen
or living room,
or bedroom
behind it -
just a shrine that some call bed.
We come and go,
but even when coming
we are leaving.
We need a door
and tiles
and toys
and spoons
and forks
We need a washing machine
and a ringing telephone
to have a window.
Windows come with walls.

Now look how painfully homeless this window is.

2 Σεπ 2017

Time travel.


Ten years ago, I will be
And in a few years ahead, I was
(Fill in the blanks.)
If only time was
just a bamboo basket
full of blood oranges
or even just a pale green washcloth
No big deal
No crying over cartoon characters
The only past
and future tenses
that exist
are present simple
and present continuous
No big deal
No crying over cartoon characters

See this red button
with the word un-death written on it?
Of course you don't.


7 Αυγ 2017

Funiculus umbilicalis.


I don't get what is wrong with these people.
Yesterday they buried me again for the tenth time in a row this year.
I am failing better, exactly like Beckett said only opposite.
Failing to convince them that I am still alive
every time I am swimming back amongst the living,
but they say no, no, put her back in, she is gone for good,
can't you see?
she is not even watching the news anymore
charging her mastercard
buying a television
or googling Ibiza.

Maybe it's my eyes that keep confusing them,
(the way I am keeping them off my face,
locked in this jolly secret box here)
Maybe it's the fact I haven't said yes to anything for months
Only asking why, why, why -
no affirmations,
no attempts to cut the ambivalence cord.
(They say "she is half born, half unborn;
let's decorate life with her present absence".)

Wikipedia is informing me, calmly,
with its business voice you can't say no to,
that in placental mammals,
the umbilical cord also called the navel string,
birth cord or funiculus umbilicalis,
is a conduit between the developing embryo and the placenta.
Who gives a fuck if the fetal heart pumps
deoxygenated, nutrient-depleted blood through
the umbilical arteries back to the placenta?
The adult heart pumps add to cart.


17 Ιαν 2017

Old eyes.


I don't want this
this despair
of really old old eyes,
Just my old eyes back -
my "happy old year" eyes
my laugh o'clock lashes.
These eyes
are heavy
and blue
made of cotton
and led
and gunpowder,
These eyes are used
and used
and used
and used
and used
and used-

Look closer and see for yourself,
this ocean behind the pupil
an ocean twice the size of earth
(oh look, there is two whales swimming right there in the middle of-)

We are done.
Are we done?
Press undo.
I want my old eyes
I want to unsee, 
to unlook, 
to unobserve,
to unwatch,

to uncry.


24 Σεπ 2016



Τριανατέξι μήνες πεταμένοι σαν τσαλακωμένο χαρτί 
μήνες παραλίγο χρόνια 
“παραλίγο τραγωδία" είπαν τα κανάλια 
παραλίγο η γάτα στις ρόδες 
η αστραπή στο δέντρο 
το χάλίκι στο στόμα του παιδιού 
τα δάχτυλά μου στα δόντια των λύκων 
-είναι λένε πάντα πιο σκοτεινά λίγο πριν την αυγή 
κι είν' ωραία στα βουνά τα βράδια 
είναι θάλασσες παραλίγο τα βουνά 
είναι ξημέρωμα παραλίγο τα μεσάνυχτα 
κρατάει για πάντα παραλίγο ο έρω.-

Μήπως αυτό είναι παραλίγο,
μια πικρή γεύση παραλίγο γλυκιά,
ένα κόμμα που μπαίνει,
ένα νεράτζι ακόμη στο κλαδί,
ένα λείο τίποτα,
ένα ράμμα
ένα σκοινάκι
Το σκοινάκι που κρέμεται
το άπλυτο του θανάτου.


3 Σεπ 2016

A jar of candy


There was always a jar of candy
at my grandmother's home
placed on top of the fridge.
I was curious, I was hungry (I was young)
And I used to camp on top of the fridge -
Put my little tent up there and my sleeping bag -
Do my homework, comb my hair,
Everything there, on top of the fridge,
so that I could shove my hand in the jar
twenty four seven
and feel rewarded for no reason -
(The jar was never emptied or even half full,
I guess my grandmother silently refilled it at night, while I was sleeping right next to it.
I called this love.)

The Monday I was forced not to use
the word grandmother any longer
I knew the jar would eventually start to empty
But it never did
And it was then that I realized that
the number of candies in a jar
has nothing to do with age
or any other limited number of years
The number of candies is not a number
There is no measure
There is no fate
Just candy -
We are the ones to choose how much life
we steal and eat


1 Αυγ 2016



When your upper lip
is taking some time off,
away from my neck
-when for example I am in the elevator
and you are in Africa-
I want to call the manufacturer
and file for a complaint
-the general idea being
"please, make me a robot".
Dear factory,
I am done with blood and ice creams.
Skip the kissing manuals.
Make me unaware.
Remove any previous technology;
no skin, no spine, no vitamins,
no trips to the ocean, no visits to museums
or memories not yet produced.
And please; no batteries included either.

Coriander has always tasted like metal anyway.

12 Ιουλ 2016

Us, elephants.


It's not easy to be an elephant -
Us elephants 
(when we feel we're about to die)
we just go to the next room 
to die alone
We don't want to put any more pressure on the other elephants
burdening them with the news
that an end is not endless.
But the worst part is not the end itself, 
but coming closer to the conclusion 
that for some others we are of more use when dead;
some people sell ashtrays 
in their corner shops down the street
- ashtrays, key chains, or even little elephant shaped statues 
- all made of ivory
for only 9,99 euro a piece.

They say, about us elephants, that our skin is thick
But if you undress us and throw our grey shirt on the floor 
(or maybe drill a hole on our back 
and then tenderly empty all of our content with the help of a little spoon)
all this convenient thickness left lying on the floor 
is not an elephant anymore. 

Us elephants pass our whole lives
trying to prove to others 
that we are actually more useful
when alive.


26 Μαΐ 2016



Κάτι συνέχεια μου λείπει
Τον βασάνιζε αυτή η φράση
Όχι η φράση, το βαθύ αυτό αίσθημα
η αρτιμέλεια αυτής της αναπηρίας - ή, καλύτερα, το καιρικό της φαινόμενο
Κάτι συνέχεια μου λείπει
Σαν να έχω δύο
αλλά εμένα πάντα να μου λείπει ένα
Σαν να έχω δύο
αλλά να θέλω να φυτρώσει ένα τρίτο
τα χρόνια
Κάτι συνέχεια μου περισσεύει, λέει
Τον βασανίζει να έχει παραπάνω -
Σημαίνει δεν μοιράστηκε ακόμη αρκετά
Και πως ο χρόνος για να δίνει λιγοστεύει
Κάτι συνέχεια μου περισσεύει -
Γιατί μου λείπαν όλα -
και το γιόρτασα



30 Οκτ 2015

Έτσι γίνεται.


Στη λίστα με όλα τα λευκά που κάνουν κακό
(αλάτι, ζάχαρη, σύννεφα,
βότκα, άνθρωποι, αλεύρι,
πρέπει αμέσως να προσθέσουμε
το επείγον λευκό σου πουκάμισο.

Ηλεκτροφόρος φράχτης,
το ύφασμά του,
απομακρύνει τα δάχτυλά μου
με το κιλό,
με φτυαριές να πούμε καλύτερα -
σαν να θέλει επειγόντως να τα θάψει.

Και είναι κι εκείνες οι μέρες,
(άσπρες κι αυτές, 
σαν την κλοπή μια ιδέας που δεν σκέφτηκε κανείς)
που η επιθυμία μου είναι μαζί 
και βρεγμένη και αθώα,
και βρεγμένη και αθώα,
και βρεγμένη και αθώα,
και βρεγμένη και αθώα,
και βρεγμένη και αθώα,
και βρεγμένη και αθώα,

ας πούμε σαν χώμα μετά τη βροχή
 Γιατί και τι είναι το χώμα; Βρωμιά είναι 
Aλλά και μήτρα για ‘κείνη κει την αιωνόβια ελιά. 

Μακάρι να έφταιγε το ύφασμα.
Μακάρι να ήταν σκόρπιες κλωστούλες η περιφρόνηση.
Είναι το σώμα σου από πίσω που φταίει.
Είναι που μόνο έτσι γίνεται να σε μάθω

– σαν να μην γίνεται.