City Smog
I inhale the city smog that covers my thoughts with its velvety garment, a golden thread stitched on my sigh as I lament your loss among the asphodels
— You need to buy gas for the mower, the can is almost empty
My desire to talk back to her hangs from my lips, and the voice of the rose in the flowerpot commands me to shut my mouth and open the bashful curtains to let the sun rays in
—Don’t wear that tight shirt, we aren’t in the seventies anymore, you know!
A sick man with his life still existing in drips and breathing machines stays motionless as if he’s ordered not to disturb the nurse’s round, and he stays mute as the dust particles that hover midair, and the sunlight reveal the secret of an upcoming death
— Help me, please, tell me what distance to leave between these two pictures.
Bell tolls for the last time when the ancient Fury unfolds the bed sheets of the sick man who’s ready to make his final peace with his wounded heart; another gracious moment for the last hurrah of life, and I think of you, my beloved, and my heart aches
—I have no more patience with you; come put the coffee pot on, it’s your day, you know!
Manolis Aligizakis 