Avenue

I walk alone in the dark avenue

holding a black cat in my arms

(Perhaps my soul or my fear

perhaps my boredom or my craziness

perhaps this poem

that jumped off the shrubs to my chest

like a wildcat).

Alone and gigantic on the dark avenue

like a hollow bell over the sea of my mind

metaphysical flower of my internal garden

that is leafed in the darkness aimlessly.

I hear the screeching of wheels behind me

afraid to look

perhaps God is on his bicycle having his evening stroll

perhaps the tank of time that flattens me

I feel the words melting in the intense fire

my past days melt inside of me

and I

        who loved the deepest beauty of life

saunter alone in the dark road of my hours

smoking the subterranean sorrow of this world

that kills itself because of boredom or craziness

with a big jump in the gorge of this earth —

burning its name in a reverie

incising the veins of its hope

that water with their most precious blood

the leaves of the tree

Desperation.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763653

12 μαρτίου 1977 – 12 marzo 1977

EXILE DIARIES

29^th of October

We found the skull of a donkey’s head

among the thorns and the red fallen leaves

perhaps it’s the head of summer

left on the wet stones

with small light-blue flowers around it

the names of which we don’t know.

If one yells behind the fence

his voice settles speedily on the ground

like the starch paper cone filled with black raisins.

During the night we hear noise coming from the hill

where they change the deflated wheel of the moon.

Later things find their places again

as you by chance find the front courtyard

or the brown button of your coat, and you know:

it’s not the button of a theater actor’s uniform, not at all,

it’s just a regular button you need to sew on your coat

with that tender, clumsy care

of a perpetual apprentice.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096TLBNFK

Bowing Out
At every step, someone falls asleep,
but like a gunfire
I hear my heart beating
and I can’t even cover it up,
nor wake it.
Can’t be all
martyrs happy,
only those who already have
had something read from me.
Yes, I am a heretic
and I am right
in a religious controversy bleeding
my fist and my eyelids
but I’m wearing a mask,
the same like
the face that’s underneath.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763645

Η έξυπνη στρατηγική του Πούτιν – Τι προσπαθεί να κάνει από το Κουρσκ

Μάρκος Μέσκος, Το άγριο περιστέρι

Roots
Spreading east and south
roots attach to sphagnum
softening rock above the permafrost
arms stretched open by
endless benevolence arresting
love in an embrace of absent
sunlight, luminous Borealis
painting sky lobes and heart
leaves with velvet infinite
crescendos of celestial music
played by ephemeral instruments
dressed in limpidity as if
declaring purity is as
plain to the eye as in every
peaceful mind of man or beast

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763033

Prejudiced

With that prejudice the disobedient toward death,

the crafty, the hypocrite, the unconvinced,

he underlines insignificant or inexistent things:

the fluff of the dead bird on the thorns,

the window that opens to a dead-end wall,

the scratches of the wall, the sketch of a vessel

the handsome archer among the large lilies

that invisible depth which the archer aims at

while two dead men, with turned backs, slowly

and carefully raise in front of the window

the white, square, stretched bed sheet.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763726

η τελευταία εξέγερση: 12 Μαρτίου 1977