Poem by Vasilis Faitas
FACTORY OF DREAMS
We hang between time and space
fleeting lives
genomes of mystery and ecstacy
pathfinders, we weave the mutant chaos
of our ancestry
in the womb of life and death
nothing is saved, nothing perishes
words-ideas, thoughts-tides
in the space where we build the revolution
of a predetermined dream
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“I’d like you to move in with me, sweet baby,” Eteo said to Ariana that afternoon. Heavy rain had prevented their walk, and they had stayed in her apartment on Bellevue Street enjoying the view of the gloomy horizon toward UBC and the Endowment Lands. Ariana’s eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on his shoulder and asked, “When would you like me to do that, my love?”
“There’s no rush. We’ll figure it out, baby,” Eteo said and kissed her trembling lips.
Ariana looked around the room at the furniture and all her other things that would have to be packed and moved or put in storage when the time came. The thought panicked her, and the stress was written all over her face, but she only said, “Yes, when the time comes, my love, we’ll figure it out.”
They didn’t talk of this anymore, but the thought of it was in their minds day after day. They started spending every night together, either at her place or at Eteo’s, and they both loved the sensation of a beloved body always next to theirs, especially Eteo, who always liked to stretch his legs and touch Ariana’s to get that feeling of connection with another person so unlike the loneliness of being alone in a big bed.
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Chaotic
The crystal dawn arrived. Full of sunlight, a baby face
that smiled at the first sight of his mother. We decided
to fall in love with chaos, to knead a new world each
morning like a loaf of bread for our orphan family,
bread warm and aromatic. It was our privilege, to disdain
all the fools wearing cassocks and their proselytism.
The crystal dawn arrived. Full of sunlight when we decided
to become the bridge where the first steps of Ubermensch
would be taken. We, the last of men, would find our end
because Ubermensch’s love for life equated to his love for us
for we sacrificed our insignificant existence in search
of the imperfect perfection of the imperfect chaos.
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WEDNESDAY
ad vagilias albas
—Why doesn’t it get dark? Have a look if you like, the new moon must
have risen somewhere. Everyone looks at what you are going to do
and you stare at the crowds looking at you.
The sights inscribe a tight circle
that can’t be broken.
If one is born the circle becomes larger
if one dies the circle will shrink
but this little, for this short period.
And the other four senses follow the same geometry.
If we’d loved the circle would break
we’d close our eyelids for a moment.
But we can’t love.
Your eyes were lovely, but you didn’t know where to look
and when you said we had to go because it was dark
you turned and looked into my eyes and a bat flew off
inscribing triangles…The gramophone started again.
Now our bats inscribe circles that shrink
as they fly from one man to another man
no one escapes
and life is rich since we have so many
and all of us alike
and life is rich since we created fin-tuned devices
when the senses fail.
Brothers, we shared the bread and the pain.
No one is hungry, or suffering anymore
and we all have the same height. Look at us!
We are looking at you. We are too! We are too! We are too!
Farther than this nothing exists. But the sea
I don’t know whether they have emptied it.
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Manolis Aligizakis 