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Friday, July 13, 2018

Sweet street Music


- Hang On -Amos Lee -



Now there are a thousand ways I could speak, and a thousand things I could speak of but there's an insistent conviction that no matter what I say, or do, some people, who were once "my" people, have their own roads to take, their own ideas of what's going on, or should go on, and their own destinies to fulfil.

We come and go in life, into and out of people's lives for reasons beyond our current (or recurrent) comprehension as if there's some cosmic chess taking place and life picks us up and places us next to other forces compliant, opposite -or gee I can't describe every possibility- to us and we're tested, and we learn, and we go on, and eventually one way or another we thrive.

It's quite a slap to realize that along the way we may cause or suffer casualties, that we may be missed, or miss, that some of our "chosen" ones _no matter what we chose them for or placed them in our hearts_ won't tag along for the ride. I've had my share, everyone has theirs. But again for some reason we keep them dear in our hearts like sailors that have gone astray , or ships that honked away into the night, crossing our path and disappearing , but always their sound will return to our ears like happy news , or fond days, where happiness resides.

Some, it is true, are sounds we wish to hush, and -make no mistake - even their routes feel lonelier without us. Even if they chose to sail, because there was no other way.

I've been both the sounding horn and the husher... I'm sure you too. And as much as I'd like to tell you that street music has been one my blessings in life you may choose not to believe me. I for one thank you for it.

Be sound darling. And here's some Amos Lee for you.
Happy journeys.

solstice

Happy Dreamer by Laid Back





“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The 

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

snippets




You've got an artist's hands, said Phillip, holding my right hand in his, kind like a child's, soft, supple he studied my fingers, and then he asked me to open my mouth so he could look inside. 
I was always embarrassed thinking people who see me laugh will instantly notice the metal fillings and forget I was even enjoying myself. 
Oh come on, it's my bloody job, he insisted, and I thought and now hear it from an orthodontist sweetheart this is a good metal mouth you've got there go ahead and ruin the charm_ 
Good teeth there, great in fact, and I praised my dentist both inside and out - god knows what she's been through with me refusing to take the shot and agonizing each time she neared me with that sting. God Kate this feels like a syringe to inject a fucking cow, can't open sorry_ 
As for the hands, it's not I was crazy about them either. What I loved was how they made me feel, each time I petted a small animal, each time I was done writing a piece I liked, or dipped them in something grainy, or played the piano_ and now I liked how they felt as they tapped on Phillip's back, easily tracking his spine under calm skin and layers upon layers of softness he'd conceal so well. 

Monday, June 18, 2018

shhh




oh how you are sensuous when you least want it, oh how he's moved by you when you least expect him to, there's music and there's a silver slipper of a moon and the cicadas wonder whether to silence or to go insane, and there is madness in the way he pauses and looks at you, and there's a shoulder sparkling in the dark, the one he kisses with his eyes as you tease him with total ignorance_ 

Saturday, June 16, 2018


you laugh your own way and I'll laugh mine 

I've once read that what goes on in one's mind goes on in one's room, or vice versa_  the tidiness, the dust, how many doors are open, or if they keep the shutters down, if there is music or a telly mumbling in the back, are the dishes washed, dried, stored back in the cupboards, if there are shoes on the floor, pants hanging on the doorknob, the laundry basket overflowing, simply full, or empty, the kind of stuff we pick up from the street, the little things we store (or throw away) old tickets, bills, receipts, things that don't work anymore but we refuse to toss; and what does it mean when there remains a suitcase in the hallway, one we neglect to empty so many days after we've come back, sat on the table, had dinners, move on to what needs to be done, what is it with suspension when we lie in bed at nights thinking there must be a place so unbolted, so uplugged, where nothing of the sort matters_  









Wednesday, June 13, 2018

the game




I want you to kiss me like this
soft and swirly, sweet at first
then later melted, sticky stuck

and like a gypsy girl I saw on the street
in my skinny-tight studded dress
and my loose hair and  my deep magenta pout
and my wild eyes
I'll kiss you back and bite hard as I can

You say you're above all that
you've convinced yourself well
or try to convince me
well I don't care what you say
I do not believe you

I would, had you given up on that game you play
had you tried the sweet dark and refused its taste
but you are lying that's not the way you feel
not when you love the agony of holding back till it aches
as much as you do

you see, I remember the look in your eyes
when words danced on my lips
words like tasting what's most sensitive
words like eating you slow

and I remember each time you're sweating
each time you embrace me and your ribs brush half-wet against my breasts
how the danger of this nearing pours like honey on your spine

it is the same as when you adore arguing with me
and then admit you'll go and agree with anything I say
because I said so

You think your heart's your own
to lay down like a red chip
to share or not share
but it isn't

it belongs to whoever can win it
to whoever can keep it
to whoever has the tools
to break inside your chest
and take the red out of you

and I know you like to win
and I know you think I'll win
because I slide my hands between your lines
into the privacy of your thoughts
into the hunger beneath your words


let me tell you
when my hand comes away smelling of you
the morning you, the real you
and each step I take I'm chased away by your scent
with nowhere to go
it's only then you'll have won
only then







Thursday, May 31, 2018

O.K.


open your shutters, darling, listen there is a song coming from the street, it's summer again słoneczko and there's so much light to go out and play, shall we get dirty and dance? among strangers, in the glow of the sunset? To the warmth of firelight? Shall we? 


think of the time you fell in love: that blinding explosion that left you cracking to the fingertips with electricity, initiated and transformed

I’m afraid,” he wrote. “Afraid 
that you’re everything.” 

And here 
the ‘g’ in ‘everything’ looked at him 
from the page with its wide, 
tearful eye, full of bravery, full of 
self reliance and hope and light. 

“Afraid that if I reach out, 
you’ll go away and I’ll have 
nothing… nothing.” 
And here 
the two ‘g’s in the ‘nothings’ were 
like her breasts, her lips, her cheeks… 
promising worlds beyond the page. 



I don't need a "welcome" mat or any other sign - to me the door is always open as long as you exist in this world _sometimes people will open their doors for you but halt you on the way to the dining room _ 
I'll only enter when the time feels right_ no,
I'm not waiting to be called upon or invited in
you see it's simple that way, you stormed in when nothing else could get inside with all those boxes in my hallway 
and it was quite the sensation
trying to find a way to dismiss you but failing flat
it's summer again  słoneczko  
so
I don't need to get inside
shall we get dirty and dance słoneczko ?


_



Did you know that O.K. means zero killed? 


Wednesday, May 30, 2018

whatever makes you feel the sun from the inside out, chase that 
_ gemma troy 




this time I'll recompensate for the summer of 16' and the holiday I ruined for that poor company of mine who spent a whole week trying to convince me the earth's not flat and the moon isn't made of paper_ 

I won't try to bring back the romance that went down with each stone I swallowed aiming to find a seabed made of wet footprints that dissolve with the movement of the current; I'll simply give back what was earned when shit hit the fan and they saw through_ 

it's not easy seeing through but that's what people do, even if there's no dance, no holy dance, no wash away, no fold of bees that is what people do_ they see through _ 

and one day I'll look down my left wrist and find the shape of you transformed into something else, something that isn't yours anymore_ maybe not tonight, but one day ... 





Tuesday, May 8, 2018

it's a beautiful mess


Love's A Stranger - Warhaus 


Back in the day when answering machines were the fad I was too young. I saw this in a movie, she'd get back from the office and find the red light bleeping, pressed the button, leaned against the wall and bit her fingernail, her thumb playing on the tip of her tongue, and she'd laugh, neck tilted, hair loose, taking off one shoe then the other, one arm on the back of her waist as if she carried some impossible weight, but she was tiny, and perfect looking in a crisp white shirt. 

I can't say for sure what movie it was, or maybe it was a bunch of movies, a lovely cliche my kiddo eyes translated into a collective mental image I've conjured up on my own. Thing is answering machines ceased to exist and so did this image in my head. We had chat rooms, then inboxes, texting and messengers, writing is great I guess but you've got to know the other person all too well to grasp their tone in written discourse. Highly unromantic too after a while, I'm kind of old school I prefer letters, but who writes letters these days _ too bad, too bad, it ruins the anticipation, instantly gratifying you and stuff. 

I've been there, having to wait, or at least not standing over an all-managing device to let me know if the recipient has been reached if I will get an answer now or when ... I liked it, not knowing... and then came this voice mail. Not like an answering machine but kinda does this to you if you don't freak on checking the thing every minute of the hour. 

In fact, that old collective mental image came back, I caught myself doing these very moves - minus the tiny crisp white shirt obviously. Only now there are pictures following the voice mail, from that remote little tavern we sat that afternoon in Mykonos, watching Vanessa feeding our octopus slices to a hundred cats, getting a little flushed, giggling a little bit extra... so Munich is sunny these days and Athens is soggy ... but jolly wild, glad;  

Monday, May 7, 2018

That little wave






Με ρωτάνε πότε-πότε τι είναι αυτό στο αριστερό μου χέρι, λένε μοιάζει με διαμάντι μισοτελειωμένο .
Και στο δεξί; γιατί έβαλες το κυματάκι; άλλος δεν το καταλαβαίνει με τη μια άμα το δει ανάποδα , τι είναι λέει τούτο, γιατί το κανες; Ψοφάμε όλοι για ιστορίες, αυτό καταλαβαίνω..
σε άλλον είπα είναι για να θυμάμαι να μαι ελεύθερη, σ άλλον γιατί έτσι μ άρεσε που ήταν απλό, είναι ένα απλωμένο μονόγραμμα , το εγγλέζικο κεφαλαίο ρω, μόνο έναν έχω φωνάξει έτσι, του έδωσα ένα όνομα που κανείς δεν γνωρίζει παρά μόνο αυτός, γιατί αγαπάει τη θάλασσα γιατί τη σκαρφαλώνει γρήγορα και της μιλάει στον ενικό, γιατί κάθε φορά που ήμασταν μέσα της ήμουν στο σπίτι μου, γιατί όταν το κοιτάζω ησυχάζω και μπορώ να κοιμηθώ, γιατί ήθελα να μείνει
μια μέρα θα υπάρξει ένα όνομα γι αυτό που είμαστε


Saturday, May 5, 2018

lullaby love





έχει κολλήσει το κεφάλι μου πώς βγήκες απ' τη θάλασσα τρέχοντας κι ήρθες κι έπεσες πάνω στην καύτρα απ' το τσιγάρο μου - ποιος έρχεται να περάσει από τόσο στενό χώρο δηλαδή - πάνω από ένα παγκάκι δυο μέτρα, είκοσι εκατοστά φάρδος για να φτάσει και να βγει απ΄τη γωνία - μόνο εσύ τα κάνεις αυτά - σ' όλα σου στέκεις έξω από τους άλλους κι ό,τι κι αν κάνεις πιάνει την προσοχή και της ρίχνει δυο σκαμπίλια, είναι αδύνατο να μην κάνεις φασαρία ακόμα κι όταν δεν μιλάς καθόλου - 

γυρνάω και βλέπω τη βρεγμένη στάχτη να 'χει αφήσει μαύρα τρίμματα στον ώμο σου και δεν μπορώ ν' ακούσω ούτε τι μου λένε ούτε τι απαντάω, μόνο θυμάμαι ότι πρέπει να ξυπνήσω και να σου την πω ότι είσαι ηλίθιος - κι αμέσως μετά κοιτάω τα δαχτυλά μου που τώρα είναι βρεγμένα κι αυτά και τα σκουπίζω μεταξύ τους και κάνω ότι δεν υπάρχεις - ό,τι έκανα και πριν, ό,τι θα κάνω και μετά, γιατί είναι αβάσταχτο να υπάρχεις τόσο που γεμίζει όλος ο χώρος και οι άκρες του 

λίγο μετά έχεις βάλει την πετσέτα στη μέση και κάθεσαι παρακεί κι έχω τη μηχανή στα χέρια, εστιάζω στις ομπρέλες αλλά μπαίνεις στο πλάνο μου, κι ούτε κοιτάω ποιος έρχεται ή ποιος κοιτάζει, βλέπω μόνο μία μπιλίτσα στην άκρη μιας βρεγμένης τούφας που κρέμεται μπροστά στο μετωπό σου, όπου να ναι θα βαρύνει και θα πέσει, όπου να 'ναι θα πρέπει να κάνω ένα κλικ γιατί έτσι κάνουμε όλοι, δικαιολογούμαστε για όσα δεν μπορούμε να πούμε, με κινήσεις, με αφήματα, με πιασήματα πραγμάτων 

μ' ενοχλεί η απουσία σου, ποτέ δεν μ' άρεσε όταν έφευγες, μόνο όταν ερχόσουν, μόνο όταν μου έδειχνες πράγματα που δεν μπορώ να κάνω και ας σου έλεγα το αντίθετο, ότι μπορώ ή ότι δεν μ' ενδιαφέρει_ κάθε φορά σκεφτόμουν "πεστο του" αλλά δεν ξέρω πώς να σου πω πράγματα που δεν γνωρίζω αν θα χωνέψεις, αν απαντιούνται, αν λέγονται, αν ακούγονται κι αυτό που όλο σκέφτομαι είναι όχι, οχι, όχι και όχι _ και όλο λέω ότι όλο αυτό συνηθίζεται, ότι αν περάσουν μέρες θα ξεχαστώ και εσύ θα πας να κάνεις όλα αυτά που κάνεις χωρίς να με νοιάζει 

κι ύστερα έχουν περάσει εκατό απογεύματα και δεν έχουμε μιλήσει και αφήνω πράγματα στη μέση και δικαιολογίες και το κυριότερο δεν επιμένω να σε δω γιατί αυτό συμβαίνει κάθε φορά - γεμίζει το κεφάλι μου με τη φασαρία σου - μ' όσες φορές ήρθες πιο δω, μ' όσα είπες κι όσα άφησες μισοειπωμένα και μ' αυτό το βλέμμα που παίρνεις λες και θύμωσες  

το λιγότερο που μπορώ να κάνω είναι να μαζέψω το ένα πράγμα που ακούμπησες μπροστά μου και να σκεφτώ ότι ήξερες όταν το άφηνες ότι δεν θα το αφήσω να χαθεί

ότι παρά τη σιχαμάρα που σε πιάνει με των ξένων τα πράγματα, μ' εμένα ακόμα μοιράζεσαι το καλαμάκι σου

ότι μπορεί και να βρεθούμε αύριο μεθαύριο και να μην σκέφτομαι κάθε μέρα το κάθε χιλιοστό από το μπόι σου....

ότι τέτοια ώρα έχεις στραγγαλίσει ήδη πέντε έξι τύπους με τα πόδια σου και λένε "οκέυ παραδίνομαι" και θυμάμαι εκείνη την κίνηση που μου είχες δείξει και σε κοίταζα σαν ηλίθια, με την εκατό τα εκατό ψυχραιμία μου να τρώει σκατά _


Monday, April 30, 2018

Play this


Κι άμα είναι δυο η ώρα καμιά φορά σταματάω τη δουλειά και ακούω τα βήματα κάτω από την Ακρόπολη, εκεί στα στενά πλάι στην πλατεία Αγίας Ειρήνης στο πλακώστρωτο ακούω που φουντώνει το γιασεμάκι και είναι οι τουρίστες δυο-δυο και πέντε-πέντε κι άλλοι καπνίζουν, άλλοι ψάχνουν τα γυράδικα, άλλοι απλά λοξοδρομούν γιατί δεν ξέρουν ούτε πού είναι, ούτε πού βρίσκονται, και δεν καταλαβαίνουν γρι από μπαγλαμαδάκια σαν εμάς. Ακούω που μυρίζει νυχτιάτικη γλάστρα και κασετοφωνέ περίπατος, ακούω και πατάτες να τηγανίζονται κάπου από ψηλά ανάμεσα στα κτίρια με πιάνει η καψίλλα στο λαιμό, είπες θα ρθείς αλλά δεν ήρθες, κι έκανα τη ζωή μου καλύτερη μάλλον, αλλά καμιά φορά, σταματάω τη δουλειά και έρχεται τριτοκαλόκαιρο κι αναρωτιέμαι εάν εκεί στο μουντό σου Όντρα κάθεσαι στο Όντραπάνυ σε καμιά καρέκλα και θυμάσαι την τσαρλατάνα χώρα μου με τα φιλιά της και την ξυπολυσιά της και τα σουβλάκια της και τους ταξιτζήδες που σου πιάνουν τον κώλο για να σε φέρουν στην παραλιακή για να γνωρίσεις αυτή που ήμουν τότε. 

Ντόμπρα νοτς _ 

Saturday, March 31, 2018

I like turtles


About a year ago I left town to travel to where the glam crowds swarm in the summer. It was work alright but as it happens when you're serious about going all business I happened upon the most fun work circumstances one ever can. Just the villa we had rented would suffice, the editorial setups, the tons of florals and glorious views of the azure, the mills, the pebbled streets, the art of it all. 

They say all greatness comes in threes, and there were more triads than I could count. One of them wore a backpack on the shoulders, offered to carry my heavy black coat around all day, shared my sincere affection for pistachio ice-cream, plus endless talks about literally everything, frozen coffee cups, gyros pies, octopus and ouzakia on the beach till we got a little lightheaded, was kind to strangers, had two cucumbers a day, went yoga flying at dawn and joined me to dance in a circle of 250 strangers at the local fair. 

Sometimes, Life is kind to us that way. 


Wednesday, February 14, 2018

In stiches

"This is the mood fellas" 
_ Joezie




A face is rarely symmetrical, each side tells a different story, if you care enough to look you'll find two characters under the same feature. His one side produced that soft and stainless I'll-give-you-a-moment kind of smile, the other a crooked little smile to match a crooked little mind. As for his laugh, his laugh was like a far-removed detonation, a low, rumbling boom. 

She said she hated her laugh. She'd have a drag and then gazing at ther nails she'd go on with how it was too loud and too throaty, it didn't fit her or any other woman for that matter. Yet, every time I heard her giggling through her nose, the way she snorted and then chuckled slowly and warmly reminded me of honey and made me feel a little more in love with life. 

From the cow shed there came the most high pitched scream and we all dropped the chore we had been assigned and ran hell-for-leather in its direction. When we got there she was lying on her back covered from head to toe in cowshit, semi dangling by her left leg that was caught in the winch rope. She stopped flailing when we entered and took on such an indignant face that you'd have to have a heart of stone not to laugh. There was no pretence of sympathy and no mad rush to detangle her. My laughter did not build softly but exploded as good as TNT, filling the dusty air and spilling out into the early morning sunshine.

Talking about the morning incident over lunch another laugh came from him like a newly sprung leak - timid at first, stopping and starting. He wasn't done yet though, I could tell from the way he rolled his beryl eyes to the sky and half bit his lip. From deep inside his chest came a great shaking motion and his face muscles grew tight. I folded my arms, eyebrows arched, waiting. In moments Joel's laugh was more like a bust water main arching into the sky soaking everyone around him with gales that debilitated him to a thigh slapping and pick faced picture of glee. I wanted to stay straight faced, flip my hair and storm off - he was after all laughing "at me", not "with me." But before I could stop myself,, my poker straight mouth twitched upwards and I was laughing despite myself. Damn it Oz, you're such an asshole.. 

Thursday, January 4, 2018

wormwood



Went back home two hours later half rested half beaten down. I mean it was kinda cool getting my ass out of the house in the first place but my expectations do not far exceed what I've known for quite some time now. Reality is I hardly conclude things unless it's work, or something really necessary and even then there's a small window open in case I need to make a run for it. 

I didn't get to see much of my company -quite a relief there as there's barely any need for me to look like a dork who's trying too hard, which I do, and what's worse I know it but for some odd reason I haven't yet reached the point of quitting. 

From time to time it feels like it's the easiest thing ever, to quit. I take off the ring, now hanging looser than it used to when I first put it on my finger (don't be fooled it's not that huge a difference - plus it is borrowed as he clearly stated), I put it on the bedside table and refuse to even look at it. I'm positive I'll give it back first chance I get and let go of that initial stupid romantic thought that having it could mean a thing. It doesn't. If it did the bestower would have had me know. Or would he? Fuck speculations, I could hurl at my own face when I dope out like that. 

A few days later it kind of bothers me seeing the thing lie next to my bed, so I put it back on my finger, I wouldn't want it to roll on the floor and get swallowed up by the vacuum cleaner-  what will my excuse be if it got lost, better safe on me till I give it back. A few days go by and I find it comfortably settling on my finger again, I spin and roll it with my thumb, check how much looser it got as I Skype, flip records or wash the dishes. And then he's there and I'll say something like "you want it back right?" and he nods no and it still gives me that kind of accord and silly warmth when he tries it on for a while and then takes it off and puts it back on my finger. 

Celi says I drive him crazy. I don't see yet but I do, she says, it's only a matter of time, but there are nights like tonight when we've had our time together and got to hug and say our thank you this and thanks for that and kept texting after parting and I come home hungry, sit over the hot plate cooking chicken and lettuce and feel like bawling because physically I miss him too much. And I could refuse his fingers snapping to light my cigarette or deny how sedative his warmth is, a kind of heat that creeps from the knees to my chin when he holds me taking a few seconds too long to let go. And I don't even want to be touched or even talked to by anybody because nothing feels like that silent grip. 

I could withdraw all the words he reads or listens to because my mouth is always so big. I could stop thinking oh fucking kiss me already and just act on the thought. But who says those things in reality? The only truth is if you won't kiss me then you can shove your mouth in your ass. 



Wednesday, November 22, 2017

He is a November baby 
and I February. He is always 
and in every way before me… 
I am now and in every way 
living in the wake of his scent, 
in the wake of his existence. 
I live
a day that is
thankful for the feast of him_ 


A Silver Slipper of A Moon

Ονειρεύτηκα οτι κατάφερα να μπω στο αμάξι και να εξαφανιστώ, έφυγα χωρίς να χρειάζεται να σηκώνω τηλέφωνα, είχα μπροστα μου μόνο άσφαλτο και ουρανό, σταμάταγα σε μέρη που κανείς δεν σταματάει, κι οταν έβρισκα κάτι που μου άρεσε στεκόμουν.
Έχω φύγει εδω και μήνες, άλλοτε κοιμάμαι κάπου ζεστά και μαλακά, γελάω στον ύπνο μου και βάζω το χέρι κάτω απο το μαξιλάρι ή ανάμεσα στα πόδια,  άλλοτε καταφεύγω σ ενα απόκοσμο ξενοδοχείο του δρόμου, ένα με βρύσες που σφυρανε με άθλια ταπετσαρία στον τοίχο και παλιά τηλεόραση, πλένω τα δόντια μου στη βεράντα κοιτάζοντας μια άδεια δεξαμενή που κάποτε ηταν πισίνα χαζεύοντας αστέρια να πέφτουν στο βάθος, ή ακούγοντας τις ρόδες των αυτοκινήτων να γλιστράνε στη βροχή ... σγους ... το ένα μετά το άλλο περνάνε αφήνοντας ένα αναμνηστικό , ξεχνανε εναν αναπτήρα ή ενα στυλό διαφημιστικό ή ένα χαρτάκι τσίχλας ή μισό το φαΐ τους. Δεν με νοιάζει... καταλαβαίνω οτι ποτέ δεν μ ένοιαζε τόσο, ποτέ δεν θα γίνω τελείως ευπρεπής, γιατί οσο κι αν μ άρεσαν αυτές οι ευγενείς στην τρίχα γκομενες,εγώ τη μία γυαλίζω και την άλλη περπατάω ξυπόλητη.
Κάποιοι απ τους περαστικούς ρωτάνε που πηγαίνω αλλά δεν εχω ιδέα πώς να τ ονομάσω, ξέρω μόνο πως έχει θάλασσα, ότι μπορω να περπατάω στην άμμο και να κάθομαι σκαλίζοντας χωρίς πια να μιλάω,    ξέρω ότι εκεί το φεγγάρι έρχεται όμορφο, αργό, και λίγο επώδυνο , σαν το χαμόγελό σου .. 

Saturday, November 18, 2017




...  να είναι κάποια που σε γυρνάει ανάποδα και σου βγάζει κάτι εαυτούς περίεργους, κάτι εαυτούς που τους έχεις φανταστεί αλλά δεν ήξερες ότι επιτρέπεται να εμφανίσεις...Kάποιοι είναι ζώα ανήμερα και άλλοι κάτι φωτάκια του αυτοκινητοδρόμου που σχηματίζουν σειρές στο σκοτάδι, κι είναι όλοι τους εσύ και ό,τι είσαι κι ό,τι θέλεις να γίνεις, κι ό,τι φοβάσαι να είσαι... κι αυτή πάντα να λέει να είσαι όλα αυτά όποτε σου 'ρχεται.
Κι είναι αυτή, με τα τσιγάρα της τα μακριά και τα λόγια της τα τετράωρα, που αν δεν την σταματήσεις θα σε κολλήσει στον τοίχο και θα θες να της αστράψεις δυο σκαμπίλια.. Κι έτσι τη σταματάς, και πάντα απογοητεύεται λίγο που τη σταμάτησες και που δεν έβαλες το χέρι σου στο λαιμό της να την πνίξεις κι αυτή να γελάει μες τα μούτρα σου...

- Καταλαβαίνεις τι κάνεις; 

(Καταλαβαίνει).

... να είναι κάποιος που σε φέρνει πίσω σ' αυτό που ήσουν διαρκώς μέσα σου, που σου φτιάχνει να φας κι έχει ξεχάσει να στρώσει το τραπέζι, που σε μαλώνει γιατί έβγαλες να στρώσεις εσύ τα μαχαιροπίρουνα, που τον παρακολουθείς να σου βάζει με το κουτάλι στο πιάτο, να κάθεται απέναντι  με τους αγκώνες όρθιους και σε νικάει με κάθε κίνηση που κάνει... που ξέρει ότι δεν θα καθίσεις να χάσεις, και που δεν θα καθίσει να σε βλέπει να κερδίζεις.. κάποιος που σκέφτεται και σε ρωτάει ξανά: τι άλλο, τι άλλο μπορεί να θες;
Κι είναι αυτός, με τα μυστήρια του και τη διακρή του κίνηση, και τα χέρια του που έρχονται όταν έχεις τελείως ξεχαστεί, που σε ξαφνιάζει και κρατιέσαι να μην πεις συνέχισε, γιατί δεν χρειάζεται να τα ξέρει όλα, γιατί δεν θα του πεις ούτε σήμερα ότι ζυγίζεις τα χέρια σου για να μην αφεθείς και μαρμαρώνεις όταν τα δικά του προχωράνε

- Καταλαβαίνεις τι κάνεις;








Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Long live the (d)evil





μπελάς είσαι      

άμα λέω γω... με τα γραμματάκια σου τα στρόγγυλα και τα μαλλάκια σου και τα λογάκια σου και κάτι απρόσμενες κινήσεις που κάνεις, τη μια μου φέρνεις μια κουβέρτα και με σκεπάζεις, και λες ότι είμαι σαν γατί κουκουλωμένο, την άλλη με ταίζεις, μια που ξεβρακώνεσαι νυχτιάτικα και πηδάς στη θάλασσα με τα πόδια σου τα μακριά και την άλλη που σφίγγεις τα χείλια, κι άλλοτε όπως γελάς κι άλλοτε όπως κολλάς για ένα δεύτερο και κοιτάς τα χέρια μου ή την άκρη απ' το μαλλί μου ή δεν ξέρω τι κοιτάς και τι βλέπεις... να δες εδώ χτύπησα, να δες εδώ κάνω μονόζυγο, να δες κόπηκα, να δες εδώ πονάει, να δες μου πέρασε και πάω να τρέξω ... κάνει ένα χραπ το φερμουάρ κι αθόρυβα εξαφανίζεσαι και στριφογυρνάω γύρω απ' την ουρά μου πού να πήγες και μετά ανοίγεις την πόρτα από πάνω και ανεβαίνω τα σκαλιά και δεν σε κοιτάω και κάνεις ένα "χιχι" κι απορείς αν εννοώ αυτά που λέω και δεν έχεις ιδέα πόσα δεν λέω, και κάνεις ένα "μισό λεπτό ζεστάθηκα" και κάνουν τα μάτια μου μεταβολή γιατί όταν εσύ ζεσταίνεσαι εγώ θέλω ξεπαγιάσεις και να μη φοράς αμάνικο γιατί δεν μπορώ να βλέπω τα χέρια σου.. κι όταν κάνεις όλα αυτά που κάνεις και βάζεις το μπούτι σου ανάμεσα στα πόδια μου συνεχίζω να μιλάω και πάω τα μυαλά μου περίπατο ή βγαίνω στη βεράντα, και μια που λες έλα αγκαλίτσα και μια που δεν λες αυτό που ξέρω ότι θα έλεγες, και μια κάτσε να βγάλω την μπλούζα τρίψε μου την πλάτη, κι ύστερα μιλάω τόσο που το μέσα μου φωνάζει σκάσε αλλά δεν σταματάω γιατί δεν αντέχω τη σιωπή, μ αρέσει η σιωπή μόνο αν μπορώ να σε κοιτάω προφίλ και δεν με βλέπεις, γιατί έτσι περνάει γι ακίνδυνη σα να μη συμβαίνει τίποτα... και πιάνω πράγματα, πιάνω τα πράγματα σου και τα περιεργάζομαι και στέλνω φιλιά στα ψάρια σου γιατί είναι δικά σου, και μιλάω στα κουνέλια του γείτονα γιατί όλα αυτά, όλα οσα είναι Εκεί... είναι εσύ, και είναι κάτι ώρες που χοροπηδάνε τα συκώτια μου, κι ύστερα αρχίζεις μια ιστορία και γέρνω στα κάγκελα και ξεχνάω τι ώρα πήγε γιατί δεν θέλω να φεύγω θέλω μόνο να έρχομαι, κι εσύ είσαι ολο φως σαν τα τζάμια του τρένου που περνάει κάτω από τα πόδια μας, και κοιτάω το χείλι σου που κόπηκε κι έχει αυτό το βαθουλωμα το κόκκινο μπλε που μάλλον σε πονάει όταν γελάς αλλά μου φαίνεται τόσο όμορφο, και σου φέρνω τούρτα γιατί ίσως εκεί χωράνε ολα όσα δεν λέω, καπνίζω τα λόγια και χειρότερα... καπνίζω τα έργα... τώρα τελευταία τρώω και μια καραμέλα, μ αρέσει όταν τρως κι εσύ την ίδια, απ το ιδιο κουτί, γιατί για λίγο δεν στριφογυρνας, και είσαι εκεί μαζί μου στη βεράντα, και ακούω τη φωνή σου μέσα από το κλακ που κάνει η καραμέλα.. και με παίρνεις τηλέφωνο να δεις γιατί αρρώστησα και μου περνάει πιο γρήγορα και θέλω να το πω και πάντα αναρωτιέμαι αν έκανα καλά, και γίνεται ο κόμπος άλλος τόσος όταν το λέω, σα να πονάει αλλά όμορφα, και μου φέρνεις ενα κασκόλ κι ένα σκουφάκι και σου πετάω ενα φιλί αλλά δεν είναι φιλί είναι μόνο ευχαριστώ, κι όπως γυρίζεις την πλάτη κοιτάω το λαιμό σου στο γιακα του πουλόβερ, εκεί που πάει να ενωθεί με τον ώμο κι έχει ένα χνούδι ξανθό που όταν γυρίζεις να πεις καληνύχτα μ εχει κιόλας διαλύσει..

μπελάς είσαι 

τι να σου κάνω που τα έχω όλα κουβάρι άλλο πάω να πω και άλλο λέω με τις γάμπες σου ανάμεσα στα πόδια μου και την κολόνια σου τη μυστήρια που με κοιτάς και με γδύνεις και μου μιλάς και με γδύνεις και σε συναγωνίζομαι και την προσοχή σου θέλω, και είσαι μουρλοκομείο και σε ησυχία δεν μ' αφήνεις 

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

I can still feel your cum piercing its way through my nervous system. It's because I liked how everything went static, locked in a grid. Or maybe because I miss getting drunk and barefoot and gratis.



Sunday, October 15, 2017

I take the train to go meet him cross-country, or is it two planes and a train, or two trains a plane and a metro ride enough to have one's back quiver a bit, but hey not ours_ we'll catch an uber to the apartment he's rent in the city next to the Jewish synagogue corseted by small kosher shops that smell of bluish smoke and foods whose names I forget, our house with its massive double doors to the living room, its Swedish wooden floors, white sofas, and Talavera bathroom tiles. 
As the car crosses the large Sunday-empty streets, he'll pull me close and whisper something on my neck as his hand circles my knee and we'll kiss and laugh, and then make scenarios what it would be like to fuck in the back seat of the uber, he'll mention he's got a bottle of Miraval cooling at home, the one I like from his parts of the world. We'll take the 1920's elevator up to the 5th floor and as we do he'll squeeze me against the mirror my lipstick smeared on his chin his shirt forming a little wrinkle half-pulled under his neat blue sweater. And then we'll fuck and dine and fuck again, and his nakedness doesn't scare me one bit, his long legs with their fair hairs sleep between my big thighs, tit to back and loin to shoulder, his paleness and my redness, my black hair, and his perfect white teeth. 

We come from hunter-gatherers… maybe we’re not meant for plenty. 
Maybe we can make a meal out of just a few written words. 
Maybe kisses, maybe touches, maybe you coming in my arms… 
Maybe having all those things would make us too weak to survive in this wilderness life… Maybe wanting… maybe dreaming… maybe desire… Maybe living a needful life is the best way ever found… not to be happy, but to be… awake to the beauty in the world and aware of the heaven we want it to take us.



Monday, July 24, 2017

Nighttide


Bits and pieces from summer 73' based on Linda Loue's recollections and my mother's journals. 


You've smoked enough, he says the moment I send my cigarette butt down the throat of a cylindrical clay ashtray. We' re sitting at this wooden picnic table under a tent on the left side of the surf camp. The music is not loud, but loud enough to cover bits of conversation among the few regulars. He's having water in a large blue plastic cup and I can hear the ice-cubes dancing on its synthetic walls. I pretend to search some invisible pocket in my blouse. 

Where did I put it? oh here it is... I grin extending my middle finger. He shakes his head, baffled at first, then looks at me, hardly amused. It's funny how childish I get sometimes at someone's kindness because that was no discipline shenanigan, just a remark to point the non-obvious, he cares. Next one you have, I'll light it for you. 

Soon as Scott sits down with the drinks I produce another cigarette, so between picking up the cocktail glass he had me ordered and teasing Scott, I nod "here" and hold the stick in the air for him to light. He does. A frown follows: just hold it in your mouth, I mean to light it over there. 

Five minutes later all conversations shift to an unbounded race of punchlines, scoop and dope cognition. Although the two of us -Scott and I- keep on palavering for over an hour, I notice how the field of reference gradually puts a soft-pedal on Ryker's enthusiasm. That's when I start feeling I just have too much nonsense coming out of my mouth.  He has a lot to talk about and get asked on , but neither of us (especially not me) has shown the will to listen to or seems to care about. 

Truth is, I get carried away by shitty stuff,  but...  at that point I know I want to hear what he has to say. I like the way Ryker goes silent and all patient. Silent as in he's truly listening to you (something that people rarely do) and patient cause he won't cut off your tons of bullshit, as he totally understands your need to sound so cool and shit. I envy Ryker for this quality, a trait I obviously do not possess. And had it been just me and him I would have asked (a lot) and kept my trap shut. 

Here is a fact: I don't. 

Here is another fact: I don't stop smoking either. 

Here is a truth: I smoke because I like to smell my soul burning. 

Here is the dope: I think when Ryker lights my cigarette it is because he likes to watch. That mirror-touch synesthesia when the flame torches blue and red causes him to feel the drag of my lips down the center of his stomach. 

Perhaps my soul burning smells nice. Perhaps Ryker's able to understand why people like us love life so much they get obsessed with finding out why their soul smells so good when it's burning. Perhaps I like to think that way because I will never admit to him I care about what he thinks, at least not to the degree I do. 

I've never told Ryker about my fascination with father-son relationships, how much I love to listen to stories, mainly the painful ones. A guy's relationship to his father speaks volumes if you wish to understand the nature of man. And I'm not going Freudian on you. It's just a simple thing really. It is a matter of inception spreading through your system in the form of septic (or antiseptic, it depends) nucleic acids, the biopolymers that make you meek, or difficult, or utterly fucked up. When Ryker brings his father's issues up I wish all the scatology would end and us to have a grown-up huddle. 

Here is a fact: we don't  

Here is another fact: Fuck!

Here is a thought: For fuck's sake,  why do I care? 

Here is the dope: We go night swimming. 

Walking down that giant obsidian jam of mud and seaweed is like finding myself in the belly of a whale,  in a dream where I'm stoned and happy. I wonder if it is a feeling universally shared if the millions of beings fastened to this world ever experience it one way or another if it has anything to do with how we felt inside our birth mothers' guts.  

Are there any pen shells in these waters Ryker asks but I have no idea. I think I've just stepped on one

Crap there are hundreds. My heels grope in the dark. There is another one over here. My toes pat around its sharp half-open mouth. The sea is warm and cool with drafts. Just go on swimming then keep your feet off the thing. Ryker splashes away. I watch his legs create a mess of white froth and black ripples. He vanishes underwater. I turn to Scott. 
You coming in already? 
No way I'm not wetting these trousers or the hair
Ryker emerges right next to me. I yelp.  

Here is a fact: that was an overreaction 

Here's why 

You know those people who you see and despite their bodies, they seem too large for a doorway? It is something about the way they carry themselves, their personality, their smile or laughter; a mountain trying to force its way into a bookstore. Ryker is one of those. All of his size is held in his eyes, a monument trying to squeeze itself into the space beneath your chest.




Sunday, July 23, 2017

Spindrift




What would people look like if we could see them as they are
soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time?   

Ellen Bass, from The Human Line; “If You Knew





All words are spells in one way or another. His, coming out of a mouth whose spit had turned chalk-white, evinced I'm fragile and unholy. 

It's dehydration you know, I haven't had enough water, that is what happens when you don't, the right edge of his lips forms a pint-sized crescent. 
I must have produced something between a smile and a frown, a certain nod of disbelief, or unawareness, or maybe just my caught attention. I'd show you, but nah, nobody wants to see that, right? 
Go on I urged. He did. 
Oh wow, that is some serious white right there

Boys love causing aversion, it is a game of power against the weaklings. Mostly that's girls who say oh eww you're such a jackass that is gross, which is a pretense -of course- because really, people do tons of crazy-gross shit when no one's watching. 

And so do girls. We tweak our body parts and pick our noses, mess with our natural fluids like tasting our own snot when we cry, pee in the sea, burp loudly, or scratch that crusty cake of skin off a wound, and then give it a good look up close, just like the next guy. Only we hate to admit it. Along the process of establishing that comely identity, we just get infused with that damsel-y blight of fragility that has our asses going ew and yuck and I don't know what else. 

I recall doing so myself at some point in life but it was only a pre-adolescent veneer that chipped soon as I hit the age of fourteen. Right then I decided I preferred to go with the liberties guys had, meaning to go as raw and as indecent as they liked, not giving it a lot of thought, just freedom.  Freedom, so necessary and so cherished, and so deliberately delivered to flames when you fall for someone's jade-colored eyes and chalk-white spit I guess. 

We each have our triggers, things that wait for us in the dark and one can't be honest enough when they want to. I found the sight of his spit particularly risque. All I  had to do was be wise and unsee it, or at least put a sock in it about what makes my thoughts a little less tame. 
I definitely avoided saying I like it, cause liking it can't go unexplained, it's fucking dehydration.  And I don't think I even said that's kinda cool, which can be partly explained if you're able enough to twist words to your benefit. 
I'd be an asshole to go for that trick. So I lit another smoke, got out of my chair and changed the subject smoothly. 
Play another song for me. I liked that track you chose. I'll play you one or two. 's that cool?

Ryker is smart -all kinds of smart- talkative when he feels like giving you a taste of thorns, his future plans or a piece of his vagaries, wistful, enthusiastic, seriously self-judgemental and therefore touchy to what can spoil your image of him , a tad impatient and mildly skeptical before he lets a little honey drop. He will appreciate your honesty (a lot), will let you in on it in a softly-spoken single word, and if the input has been sweet,  he'll find a way to pay it back a few moments later by dosing you with an affectionate remark his tone implies he means it. 

Sometimes you 're able to taste the very young on people's lips long after they're considered such, the 1994-hard of their curves or the 1995-sweet of their skin each time you touch them. And sometimes you can sense the thirty-something give of their body or the forty-something way they'd come like they're setting a blues song loose like they're gonna break every string. 

So it is no big mystery why, when we accidentally touch, my kneecap flinches as if he tapped me with a rubber hammer. He notices. I'm no doc I remark but that means I've got good reflexes. He's way too smart to buy it, and besides, unlike the case of doctor Feelgood and his little gizmo, this one is a bilateral reaction. I know it, Ryker knows it. As long as no one's asked to hop on one leg while they pat their head and rub their belly, there is his hand drawn back in a flash saying sorry, and there is my kneecap in all its unadorned glory. No biggie, right? So we sit tight.This didn't hurt a bit. 

He's now perched up the wooden balcony rail, balancing himself, hugging the corner sleeve, crossing his tanned thighs, then blows on a hay golden strand of hair falling over his eyes as he speaks of the future and blushes like an ocean in love, wild with blueness. 
I'll do it, for real .. he pauses as if he's had a clear vision of his life passing before his eyes like cinemascope,  I'll make a living for myself and then go find a nice little place of my own and die without anyone being able to locate the body. I hate old age and the idea of people crying over a senile corpse. 

What was that thing Van Gogh had said: I'd rather die of passion than of boredom? You crazy-ass idealist, romantic, Mustang boy. 

I'd go on telling him that who he is, is bound to change, that some things will always be able to take him back, music, tastes, scents, and probably that rash he gets from climbing the surfboard he so much loves despite the reaction. 

I'd go on saying that these things are now making him who he is and one day they'll be unspooling time for him, like a dress slipping on the floor or some woman who'll be all hair and hips and hell. 

I wanna tell him that life is going to pull him apart and put him back together, expecting him to look the same, and see the same, and speak the same, but he'll be different.He's going to have thorns and poetry and be brave as hell; still eager to live a little bit longer, go into the unknown a little bit deeper; he will be fearless despite the fear.

But he has to have been there. He has to have smelled that scent. He has to have tasted that wine and danced to that music. So before he changes he needs to save who he is. He needs to bury his body in someone's skin, and they should cover each other in need and dance.

I found this written on somebody's wall the other day. I'm only showing you because that's how I'd love people to witness me one day, I tell him.  
Sounds like a cry, or worse, It's swagger and cocky .. I'm conceited like that. But I like it. Somehow I think a part of you will like it too. We're all such pricks and weirdos, aren't we? 

Let me be God. Let me be
Fuck. Let me be Christ
when you’re bitten too hard.
Let me be animal sounds.

You know what? I am a weirdo, he says pulling back his hair, both knees fidgeting, one arm jammed under his armpit. 

You know what, Ryker, I think that's rather cool.