The Horses of Achilles When they saw Patroklos dead, who was so brave, and strong, and young, the horses of Achilles began to cry; their immortal nature was outraged at the sight of this work of death. They reared up, and tossed their long manes, they stamped the ground with their hooves, and mourned Patroklos, whom they felt was soulless—devastated— lifeless flesh now—his spirit gone— defenseless—without breath— returned from life to the great Nothing. Zeus saw the tears of the immortal horses and felt sad. He said, “At the wedding of Peleus I shouldn’t have acted so mindlessly; it would have been better if we had not given you away, my unhappy horses! What need did you have to be down there among miserable humans, playthings of fate. You whom death cannot ambush, who will never grow old, you are still tormented by disaster. People have entangled you in their suffering.”—But for the endless calamity of death, those two noble animals shed their tears.
The huge banner fluttered on the deck of the aircraft carrier might of a nation on drugs impresses the unimpressed peons as the commander in chief of the free western world stepped on board, paroxysmal smile on his face resembling his unnatural joy Frankenstein’s bride before a mirror.
The huge banner fluttered on the deck of the aircraft carrier for the success of the free world that freed the five thousand old country of its devastated history and stayed attention as if paying their respect to the thousands killed. Mission accomplish
2. I am one of you, seeking a path between pleasure and decency, voting for miracles, hoping to be saved and by travelling, sometimes on the road, sometimes beside it… I cast my vote for the first cross, for God is dead, and who else could I compare myself to? I have seen, I have experienced fear, the omnipotence that blows your mind clear. I cast my vote for the realm of scents, for the fragrance that is followed by a smile, for your gesture that implied this journey is not over, yet what is yours, you must get pointing to those unparalleled constellations where all theories are abolished on existing or never existed creation, illuminating the simplest of relation we had never known before. I cast my vote for my ancestors forever on the road, who stepped from the wet pavement into the ever-changing afterlife, preaching the immediacy of history. I cast my vote for the loneliness of cities, where souls caged by four walls pray for a hellish peace, slipping away in ease, leaving nothing behind, from behind of a mirror they dream of a touch or perhaps the touch that might redeem the never ending, monotonous sparks of weekends.
Impression You drum your fingers on the table your coffee cup still brims of heat anxious moments no one listens and you tap your fingers talking to emptiness rhythmic impression happy mood the nostalgia of your hand touching the cold table unbearable ache the loneliness you try to drum away from you
encounter in life are shared by all only to a different perhaps level of intensity from one to the other ultimately to be left with that Pandora’s gift to the universe: hope. And upon this hope one commences all over, like a new Sisyphus pushing his rock towards the hilltop.” “You speak of very wise things, Dylan, and I don’t hesitate to say that I enjoy your philosophical views,” Anton smiled at the old Irish man. Anton’s side view caught Migizi with a young girl coming towards them. When they neared Anton and Dylan the youth introduced his sister Miigwan to Anton. “My sister,” the boy said proudly and his cheeks turned red as much as his sister who lowered her eyes and didn’t say any word. “Good to meet you Miigwan,” Anton said to the girl who whispered something, which only her brother Migizi heard. Anton realized that it wasn’t meant to hear what the young girl said and who continued to look at the ground and kept silent. Her brother smiled at Anton and Dylan, pulled his sister by the hand and walked away. Soon they were among all the other children who walked around the grounds in bunches of two or three, until the school bell was herd and Father Nicolas who was on duty with Mary gathered them. They were put in rows of three and slowly walked into the school for their morning porridge. “Another day in Paradise,” Anton thought and smiled. Yes another day to work in the laundry with the old Irish man. The skunk was buried today while the sun played hide and seek with the ones who looked up high and noticed, those few who had perceptional vision of that kind. The skunk died and took along with him the stench of those days, bad days as Dylan named them; yet were today’s days different and if so in
help but think that he should have done a better job of shaving that morning and, yes,maybe it was time for a haircut. But this was the way he was for now so he just had to run with it. As he entered the office, Joel walked up to the counter and was met by the smiles of five ladies of various sizes and ages working at their desks on the far side of the counter. The one thing that they all have in common, Joel realized, was that they must love working at the auction yard. Joel could not remember ever seeing an office where everyone was wearing such big grins. That Roy fellow who ran the yard did seem to be a nice guy, but boy oh boy, he must be doing something special to create this kind of happiness. One of the ladies, an older woman with blue hair and black-framed glasses, volunteered in a light, almost giggly, voice that “Cindy will be out in just a minute.” Funny thing is that Joel couldn’t even remember asking for Cindy.
Auntie Tyne had brushed her long blonde hair and pulled it into a cute pony tail before they set off for the Harrisons’ house. Rachael had felt like a princess. She hadn’t wanted to take her skirt and blouse and sweater off, so had kept them on for the rest of the day, and at bedtime she’d looked for a place to hang them. Her cousins had peeled off their own clothes and dropped them into a heap on the floor. When Rachael couldn’t find a spare wire hanger in the small clothes cupboard, she had laid her new garments carefully over the back of the one chair in the room. But Lyssa had immediately swept them off onto the floor, and as much as Rachael wanted to pick them up, she resisted when she saw the ‘I dare you’ look on the nine-year-old’s face. Rachael’s stomach growled. In the stillness it sounded to her ears like the rumble of the freight trains that passed through Emblem several times throughout the day and night. It growled a second time, and Rachael clutched her abdomen with both hands in an effort to keep it quiet. She didn’t want to wake Lyssa and Lark – they would start pushing her again. She wished she could have slept on a cot like Bobby was allowed to do in the boys’ bedroom. But the girls’ had a bigger bed, so she had been told to sleep with them. Her stomach would not stop grumbling, and now the hunger pangs made her wince. Rachael was no stranger to hunger. Sometimes, at home, Mommy had not had money to buy enough food for them. It wasn’t their mom’s fault, though. Rachael had seen her go without a meal so that she and Bobby could eat what little there was. At the farm she and Bobby were never hungry. There had been lots of food on the table, and Auntie Tyne and Uncle Morley had made sure to fill up both her plate and Bobby’s at every meal. The food was good, too, always with generous helpings of the vegetables that Uncle Morley brought in fresh from his garden every day. Just thinking about it made her hunger pangs worse. She’d better think of something else. But Rachael could not keep her mind off her empty stomach, and she thought about the big breakfast Auntie Tyne had cooked for them before they left for the Harrisons’ house that morning.
Their flight is a five-hour affair. They have first-class seats and are served a light lunch once the plane is in the air. Hakim is hungry and enjoys the food, although Ibrahim eats only a bit of his. They each enjoy a glass of red wine. Hakim asks the same question as on the previous day. “My uncle, you promised to tell me more about the work Matthew Roberts and the Admiral do for the CIA, do you remember?” Ibrahim takes a deep breath, smiles, and says, “It is a long story, my dear boy; however, in a nutshell, this is it. They both work for a department that goes by the code name the ‘Circle’. They are located in Washington D.C., not in Langley. In their department 130 people analyze intelligence, data, and information, and make recommendations to the Executive Branch. This is where decisions about war take place. Based on the recommendations of the Admiral, who bases his decisions on the analyses of Matthew’s people, the war room as some call it, takes its stand against any enemy as circumstances dictate.” He stops and takes a deep breath. Ibrahim does that a lot more often, Hakim notices. The old man looks at his nephew, wondering how far he can still go with this. “They are the basis of a detailed system that undermines the governments of various countries, based on what their goals are and serving their interests the best way possible. They formed the basis for the decision to go against Saddam Hussein in the war of 2003. That department of the CIA is the one which sexed up the propaganda before the war.” “In other words, they are the reason the war started?” “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way exactly; however, they had a lot to do with it. You see, they are not the final decision makers of the government, but they make recommendations based on data. They have a plan of action for any foreseeable event, which could turn the outcome of their strategy one way or another. They plan with various options always before them, and even then they prove to be wrong on many occasions. There’s always a variable that cannot be predicted ahead of time, and when it comes to play, it alters the results time and time again. This is the same reason they are wrong so many times—the unpredictability of the reactions of people to certain events and to intelligence. Every time you think how or why a decision has to be made, it’s like being in a maze, and you can only hope for the outcome you have predicted.” He stops for a while, calls the flight attendant and orders two glasses of wine. Hakim takes a sip of his wine, looks at his watch, and estimates they are halfway to New York. His uncle looks tired. Yet Hakim wants to know more. “What else do you know, my uncle?”
paper doves flew inside the dark colonnade of the palace and each flutter of their wings the deep glance of the Kore was too like the fall of a stone in the sea or the promise of a distant joy lower the thin dresses with the colourful flowers that the wind caressed and were worn by wooden statues with still wooden eyes and clay hair wooden statues named Maria named bottle tallow bicycle named spark
buttoning up my desires of a phoenix with a spared woman’s eye where I am vigilance on your eyelids where morning tears a star my little bloom doesn’t deserve a word
shame burns my masquerade satisfaction lasts only until dawn and my outspoken blood mutates my rampage gets worse half way through
God stops me for a few days to retire I block myself all my silence too let me be warmed up by your dawning fire I wish I knew what my voice was hiding fresh mercy tears my soul’s depth your voice stops me crying because I was just your tyrant-breath I make way for my narrow desires’ path to raise the tiny voice up
daybreak wakes you up at midnight as the universes were put in orbit unstuck I tried to live according to your wishful vision where nights and days are siblings your body is an unseen prison just behind words on posters’ printing
Manolis Aligizakis 