Sixth Hour

A sudden emptiness in my gut

unexpected pain I taste

for the missed kiss desired and

the silence of the black shroud is

conferred unto the freshly dead

Trickling night forgets

the name of the first slayer when

in His capricious mania

Jehovah trowels ephemeral glitter

applying it with shining colors of

sun and afterglow of

lovemaking before raining it

down to the net strands of

virgin life when

shit hits the fan and new

concepts announce themselves with

appellations of rich-richer

hungry-hungrier unfortunate-less

orphan with

layers of fat under the skin

guiding He divides Earth

into lavish and dirt floor worlds

never daring to name exiles

whose homes are razed as a favor to allies

or filth in their hearts – those who have one

who never dare name multinationals

dark corridors of minds and agencies

commanding obedience preacher

commanding kneel obey

pay and counting as I cry in dismay

at the sight of full coffers and stomachs

before long the answer comes

from the lips of the faceless

corporation: who cares?

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MELANCHOLY OF JASON KLEANDROS

POET IN KOMMAGINI, 595 A.D.

The aging of my body and my face

is a wound from a dreadful knife.

I have no perseverance at all.

I fall back on you, Art of Poetry,

that knows something about potions,

trying to dull the pain through Fantasy and Language…

It is a wound from a dreadful knife.—

Art of Poetry bring your potions,

that make—for a moment—the pain go away.

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Poem by Miltos Sachtouris

NOSTALGIA RETURNS

The woman undressed and lied

on the bed

a kiss unfolded on the floor

wild faces with knives appeared

on the ceiling

a bird hanging by the wall

choked and vanished

a candle leaned over and fell

of the votive

sobs and sounds of running footsteps

were heard outside

They opened the windows

a hand appeared

then the moon invaded the room

hugged the woman and they slept together

all night long a voice was heard:

the days pass by

the snow stays

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Poem by Alexandra Bakonika

THE LAST GARMENT

For a long time he had courted her
and when he found her on the beach
among acquaintances and friends
he spread his towel beside her
and as they lied very close, he touched her.
He got lucky
and was somehow surprised
by her immediate response
she stood up and led him
to a secluded remote beach
where they stopped
and from experience gained from former
love affairs
she knew the heat
she caused when she stood stark naked
and throwing off the final piece of her garments
she started going in and out of the water
many times and flamboyantly
as if to tell him

die wanting me

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Boreas

With sharpened fangs and

grasping talons

they depict Boreas

though its benevolence

runs smoothly through your veins 

as my hand under satin blouse

follows contour of your nipple

and the Boreas sings

for us two hiding

in the terrace loveseat

secluded from

the neighbor’s conspiring eyes

and you said

I enjoy the wind’s caress on my legs

as I do your fingers on my nipple

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Spring Longing

He was startled by a bloomed tree in the unkempt park.

The maid with the sailor on the bench.

The open horse carriage in front of the suburb

            bus station.

Haven’t that longing and indeed the trust

            got tired?

Surely the young girl in the opposite house

had climbed on a chair to hang the light, white

curtain. She didn’t hang it. She stepped down.

She stopped in front of the mirror and touched her

breasts.

            The curtain looked elsewhere, with one

shoulder leaning to the side as if waiting for her

other hand to touch the other shoulder.

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