In a male voice férfihangon The charm of the poem is sung in a voice of a male, you can play the strict rules out, if the outlaw’s honor allows your name to populate the high ground. You search above the world, looking for your own reins, my million formulas are falling into space, dizzyingly – between verses, only your DNA remains and my signature in the lumber room, eventually. Your magic spell, your master phrase’s gone away,
slide into the world with your sweet lap, don’t confuse today and yesterday, you grow in the shadow of tomorrow’s gap. Magnetic charges in the old stars’ brim, wildly, between the rules they are driving you only notice the softness of my skin when my generous pleasure is backbiting. I multiply my charms, vigil must be kept over the deathbed worn, my eyes deteriorate between two hugs, in my arms and you will be nothing but my prey by dawn. I burn the stamp of fools on my skin, the twitching of the heart is often a lethal waddle, DNA has washed away its new code name pin, although you were a born titular, a role model.
same job that has bought his life out. When he sits in his office he feels like another piece of furniture or even like the cheap print on the wall. All this for a salary that keeps him and his family fed, but has kept him forever hungry for all the other things in life which he has missed out on. He has lived this life for thirty years of five days everyweek in the same office and the same crummy hotel room. His life is like a wound up machine, well-oiled, well-serviced to do as expected of him; a machine that uses little energy and that produces a bit of something for the people above. Five days aweek away from home and two days at home with Emily and his daughter Jennifer, who has grown up without a dad and Emily, with a husband on call, with a life in pieces, in increments, like an eyedropper giving a drop here and a drop there, enough to keep one seeing something of life, but not enjoying a real life. Many a time he has wished for a different job, a different life closer to his family, but it’s too late now, too late for change. Retirement is coming soon and he looks forward to that. He gets ready monotonously, like a robot doing things as if wound up, like a wound-up little man that kids play with, with his brand new batteries every day, the same routine, every day the same sequence from getting up in the morning to going to bed late at night. The TV, his opium, there to keep him company; the TV close by, but his wife and daughter and everything else a human being likes to have close, always far away. In his office he doesn’t even say good morning to the receptionist, who has been his smile-of-the-day kind of a person. She’s surprised when he doesn’t talk to her on his way by. She knows something heavy sits on his heart; she has noticed over the last few years that this man is just an automaton and the softness of his heart—the heart she remembers from the first days she met him—is just not there anymore. What a job can do to a person is amazing, but it isn’t her place to ask him about it or to do anything about it. She knows that’s where his wife comes in—when a man has something heavy in his heart. Dorothy also knows she isn’t his wife, so she let his wife worry about it. But does his wife care to know what sits heavily in her husband’s heart? Dorothy has never met Mrs. Roberts. It’s about nine o’clock, the usual time he dials the number to reach home. “Hello there, honey,” he says, when Emily answers the phone. “Hi Matthew. How are you, today?” A question asked for the millionth time, and here comes the answer, repeated for the millionth time. “I’m okay; how are things at home?” “Everything is the same,” deep in Emily’s heart, she wishes things could be different for a change.
V They gather like blown magnolia leaves: primitive perseverance, they come forth at the forest’s edge with muffling words where an imposing seer reaching to the ceiling of the blue sky a woman with a prostituting voice sinfully stands up front. Silence cuts through the hardest flesh and fear pierce sight, the seer chews three magic leaves, shrub’s undulating curse suffuses, as she utters strange words a mesmerizing sentence: meaningless words dressed in passion; words killing dreams under the half-burnt oak; the omega concept listening to almost half-truths bewilderment and nascent faith appear entering in all grandeur, like a phantasm. Behold, the Troglodyte’s first church is morphed. Behold, the religious bureaucracy appears.
Manolis Aligizakis 