Sun on Your Pillow

You are out of touch with the place you’re at. A place with endless fields and long mountaintops in the horizon, with a minority of blonde blue eyed people, and another of short dark haired ones, with a quality of cold air you’ve never felt before, and strangely, with scents that are not aromatic hydrocarbons and monoxide. It is just you and a wet bus window glass touring you to all that you’ll never understand how they function and how they survive without knowing how you function.

You stop in the middle of nowhere, under a dull sky and within mild dew. It is just you, the beautiful desert that gives life to things that are not you, and a bench. And you think it is strange that people are getting on the bus there, that it is normal for someone to stop in a desert made of grass and shrubs without any sign of rock, cement, or roof as far as the eye can see, and to find people waiting there. Where did they come from?

You cross through villages you never knew existed. You see tractors lined up, small grocery stores with foreign names written in your language, squares without children, alleys called “Plato street,” and you wonder what Plato even means for those who live there. Minarets and steeples, headscarves and cheap mini skirts, mustached muslims and cane-carrying christians – and you behind the glass looking, absorbing, observing like a city slicker the scary quantity of unusual that is making you feel like a villager who just arrived to the real world.

Double yellow lines on the road – built over the old Roman road that legions crossed once upon a time. And the Roman legionnaires were perhaps staring at the endless pastures and the infinite straight road like the Carthaginians starred at the Colosseum, only difference being that the awe of the latter was finite.

You have forgotten of your flight and your home, you have forgotten what you’ve left behind and what lies ahead, you are just starring, looking and trying to learn. You see the ugly corner coffee shops and the signs on the low houses: “Butcher Shop: Honesty” and under the same roof, semidetached, a barber shop. You think that you like these places, you recall that you want to go to Danzig because it is an endless ugly shipyard, you remember that your strongest memory from Scandinavia was that bar in Copenhagen, where they didn’t know how to make black russians and no one spoke english but only bosnian and russian, and that it was full of truck drivers and prostitutes. You are trying to imagine yourself sitting in the ugly corner coffee shops, stopping your car at each one of them, at every tiny foodtruck next to the forrests and the long Roman road, at every ugly and forsaken place.

And you’re a bit scared by how well you make do, at how easy it is to imagine that you live there, that you grow miserable there, that you are ending as unimportantly as now there, but without the easy pretense for the opposite the urban luxuries offer. You imagine beds made out of straw, muddy boots, you embed your mind into Gogol and Dostoevsky and forget all you have learned, you trade it shortly to feel yet another dead soul with a fixed destiny that includes two acres of land and a Katerina Ivanova who speaks broken turkish and whose parents hail from streets that have no names.

The realization that between you and your imaginary misery stands only a glass window makes you a bit uneasy. No steel wall, no absolute rationale, just a fish tank glass that allows you to stare at the misery of another life in the eye while it offers you its grande smile, blinding you with the magnitude of a loss reminding you that which you have not lived, reminding you how you show and are shown pity with inhumane naturalism. You put your hand on the glass, you clear out the vapor of your breath to not miss the moment, the breath of the still life that is being painted outside. And you get this crazy yearning to get out of the bus, to live this entire death that is life outside of your climate controlled home, to get out and sit next to a deserted altar and to burn money and identification cards, to despair, to despair and feel alone, prey for the infinite landscape. You wish you could climb a small hill to get a better view of the overland sea around you, to see the clouds over the mountains and the large mud lakes within the thickets, to see the desert and to feel how human you may be with no warm air in your lungs, with tears from the wind and with nothing, nothing at all to believe in, to risk, and to finagle. You want to feel the endless sadness of being nothing in nowhere, to walk to the ugly corner coffee shop and see someone who stopped his car there so that he can say he sat at a deserted coffee shop once, and to laugh, to laugh hard with that funny guy and his climate controlled car, with the hundred dollar bills in his pockets thinking that he’s understood the slightest from the shiny violence of solitude.

You clean up the glass, you want to get out, there are no flights in the world you got lost into, there are no warm embraces to return to because you started from nowhere. You just want to get out, you want to cross to the other side of the glass, you want to get out of the fish tank into the ocean and to scare the goldfish looking at you thinking “thank god that I am soon catching a flight, thank god I am not that person, thank god that a bench in this soul eating desert is not my only home.” You want to get out seconds before you realize that now you know where the people who got on the bus came from. You want to get out because now you know the importance of Plato here. You want to get out so that you don’t have to see names on the streets, you want to get out to see the legions passing by, marching towards their dreamports in turtle formations a hundred miles an hour on the left lane of the large Roman road – and to wonder, where all these people are going.


Καθώς τα τελευταία αχρησιμοποίητα σεντόνια απλώνονται στο κρεβάτι
Η εικόνα στέκεται για λίγο ακόμα
Σαν εξηγήσιμο θαύμα
Μια προμνησία με φωτογραφικές αποδείξεις.
Όπως το σώμα σου, γδυτό
Έτσι απογυμνώνουμε τις μέρες μας στη γνώση.
Με όλη του την αφανή δόξα
Το παρόν κυλά μέσα στους ιστούς μας
Ποτέ ξανά μαγικό
Ποτέ ξανά απροσδόκητο
Αλλά αντίθετα αναμενόμενο

Με απαξίωση για λέξεις τόσο απόλυτες
Όσο επιτρέπεται μόνο στην ανάμνηση
Αφήνω τα δάχτυλά μου ελεύθερα επάνω στο δέρμα σου
Τόσο σταθερά και τυφλά
Όσο μόνο η συνήθεια μπορεί να σφυρηλατήσει.
Τις κατακλείδες των τελετουργικών μας
Τις έχουμε φωνάξει δεκάδες φορές
Τις έχουμε ακούσει άλλες εκατοντάδες
Και πενθήσαμε την απώλεια του ξεχωριστού,
Του μοναδικού, του υψηλού, του τελευταίου κομματιού που λείπει.
Το σπάνιο, το συμπληρωματικό και το αναγκαίο
Έχει γλιστρήσει ανάμεσα στα δάχτυλά μας φορές σχεδόν αμέτρητες.

Καθώς τα τελευταία αχρησιμοποίητα σεντόνια απλώνονται στο κρεβάτι
Η εικόνα στέκεται για λίγο ακόμα
Σαν ένα πατημένο μονοπάτι πίσω από την πλάτη μου.
Ο θάνατος παίρνει εύκολα τη μορφή του
Όσο κόβει βαθιά η περιφρόνηση σου για ό,τι νομιζα(με).
Καθώς τα τελευταία αχρησιμοποίητα σεντόνια απλώνονται στο κρεβάτι
Γελάω με το παιδί που τα χρόνια μου επέβαλαν να γίνω
Ποθώντας πράγματα άλυτα αντί για φωτεινά
Αλλά ο θάνατος παίρνει εύκολα τη μορφή μου
Όπως και κάθε άλλο τέλος.

Κι έτσι αφήνω το τσιγάρο να σβήσει επάνω στο μαξιλάρι
Αφήνω τη φωτιά να διασκεδάσει τα όνειρα.
Έχω κάνει, έχω υπάρξει
Έχω ονομάσει κι έχω ονομαστεί:
Οι λέξεις μας και τα δάχτυλά μας
Έχουν αντηχήσει σε σκέψεις και έχουν συρθεί πάνω σε πρόσωπα
Φαντασμάτων και σάρκας.

Θαμμένοι βαθιά στη σιωπή μας
Καταγράφουμε κάθε γύρο
Με κέρδη και απώλειες
Στοιβαγμένα στην ίδια στήλη.
Και καθώς το κρεβάτι τινάζει τις στάχτες του
Καθώς τα σεντόνια μεταμορφώνονται σε καπνό
Στέκεσαι στην κόψη της φλόγας
Ανάμεσα στην ψυχρή ζέστη του παρελθόντος μου
Και την αφελή ασφάλεια του παρόντος σου
Στοιβαγμένα στην ίδια στήλη.


I looked at the drops on the ceiling of my aorta.
Frozen on the pause of an oscillation
that I still don’t know why it began.
Still! May such battle cries never be forgotten.
I looked at the silver vacuum that cracks the walls
with a colorful cesarian flood.
Hot tea, secret recipe, with a shot of bourbon.
Neurons and muscles of a beautiful backside that didn’t break
when it should have.
And fingers divided into sectors

Blissful will be the day
When we will lean side-by-side against an unbreakable wall
And if we look back
Only the grey scale graffiti
Will remind us that we left something behind.

Blissful will be the day
When our roads part
In their beginning
And the gun that we jump
Will have no echo.

As long as we can keep our hands in our pockets
And the tips of our fingers caress
At least a pack of yellow filtered cigarettes
In honor of all those that didn’t come unfiltered.


After the feast
We left in haste
Into a horizon that dawned backs
On the way behind a wall.

After the feast
The music lowered so
That we confused it
With silence.

After the feast
I stopped waiting for the dead
And my voice was an echo
Of all that should be said.

And it knew exactly what it wanted to say
And how much to keep silent
How to hide a red swish
In dark whispers.

And as for me, I was the tree
And the feast ended that night
When in the morning the laughter faded
And no one searched for my shadow.

There were only a few black feathers left
And a thousand marble roots
One for each time that our name
Was no longer the answer.

And as the world slapped me
And I started to believe that I could walk
The feathers like impossible leaves
They festered and lifted me
And my thousand marble roots
They broke earth into steps.

And now I became the horizon
Waif of dawn and dusk
Never again their shade
Never again a shadow.

After the feast
I will waft here
Among the inevitable
Never again a mismatched doctrine
Never again never.

After the feast
I will flourish my thousand suns
That for long rooted like graves
In a death that will never be.

P.S. Κι ακόμα δεν ξέρω τί με ενοχλεί πιο πολύ.

Better to Reign in Hell […]

Η άγρια ​​αλήθεια είναι ότι η καλοσύνη που κηρύττουμε
Περιστρέφεται γύρω από την έννοια ενός απόντος κακού
Περιλαμβάνει το τυφλό σημείο μιας διαθήκης που αντιλαμβάνεται
Τον εαυτό της ως κάτι αυτοεξαιρούμενο
Διαλύεται σε λέξεις που είναι είτε πολλές είτε πολύ λίγες
Για να αποτελέσουν δομή αδιαπέραστη από δίψα.

Η απρόσεκτη νεότητα επιβαρύνεται με το φταίξιμο
Για τις τυχαίες επιθέσεις ενάντια στην ίδια την τύχη
Για τον εαυτό της που διαιωνίζει
Το προσωρινό
Μετατρέποντας την πραγματικότητα της σάρκας σε βασική πεποίθηση
Εγωιστικής ανιδιοτέλειας, με ανοσία στην εξέλιξη.

Τράβηξε αίμα και μετά απάλυνέ το. Οι σπόροι της ειρήνης
Ριζώνουν στη σύγκρουση, η απώλεια και η απουσία
Σκοτώνουν αρκετό από τον εαυτό σου, ώστε ο υπόλοιπος να μεγαλώσει
Χάνουν αρκετό από το Θεό σου, έτσι ώστε ο πίθηκος να βρει καταφύγιο
Μην ξεχνάς ποτέ να μην θυμάσαι
Και το μονοπάτι θα μετατραπεί σε δρόμο.

Η άγρια ​​αλήθεια είναι ότι η αποθέωση που επιδιώκουμε
Εξακολουθεί να μην αξίζει στην ασυνάρτητη, κουτσή ψυχή μας
Και κάνει τον ταπεινό κύκλο της μέσα από λεωφόρους ιστού
Που κατοικούν στην πρωτεύουσα διάλεκτό μας, στην υγρή, ωμή γλώσσα μας
Και μέσα σε κότσια και τένοντες και μυες και νεύρα
Αυτός ο περαστικός ναός είναι ο ίδιος το μόνο είδωλο που μπορεί να κρατήσει.

Γιατί το δέρμα σου είναι ο αγωγός της θέλησης
Γιατί τα λόγια σου είναι οι τελευταίες αληθινές εντολές
Γιατί απουσία κακού είναι να αναγνωρίζεις τη σάρκα
Ο παράδρομος για τη λογική, το μέσο για μια αρχή
Ενός βασιλείου που έχει έρθει για να μείνει.
Έτσι, κατάπιε την ουρά της οφιοειδούς σκέψης σου
Γιατί μόνο ένα θηρίο που ταΐζεις είναι ποτέ πραγματικά δικό σου.

Necessary Evil

We would never promptly and adequately learn
The way in which the term “paradox”
Is an inherent oxymoron, each time.
That exclusion may constitute
That flaw is an ingredient of
And that each possible zero
And every unmanageable detail
Are the whole and the impeccable
Owed to us.

We would never learn the thousand ways
That crown dearth as guarantee
That turn parting into promise
That set rules as a scavenger hunt
For the domain in which they have no application.

We would never learn what we could be
If we didn’t slaughter our own dreams
We would never learn to walk
If we didn’t push off one day
Nor would we ever learn the way back.

Don’t get me wrong
I am not saying that everything was right
Nor am I declaring any evil necessary
Yet we had to rent ourselves out to wrong
Before its repulsive hand
Reimbursed us, if not with what was overdue,
At least with what was most deserved.

We would never learn
If we didn’t use our own hands;
We would never learn
If we didn’t think we did it for ourselves.
We would never learn
Lest some songs found us, again.

A Thousand and None Nights

There’s a man on my train wagon
Dressed in military clothes and a jaded stare
He hides, just like I do, from the first light
Deep under the earth, in the blurry in between
Of the old night and the new identical day.

And surely a time will come in his life
One of those times of semi-sober retrospect
When half jokingly
We ask loudly about all the sunrises that went by
And how much of ourselves we poured into them.

And surely, surely, he will want to say it
To the person that will sit next to him then
“I remember that day, it was still dark
And I was standing in the train wagon counting
How many other places were out there that I wanted to be in.”

And surely, surely inside him he will know
That none will really care.

None cares about the strange stories
About the morning times when he didn’t survive himself
And if out of kindness he listens to them – he will forget them
And if within his own stories he compares them
He finds nothing in common, just like with everything commonplace.

You can say how you want your stories to change the world
And how no memory ever really fades away
And how no fairytale makes the next one old
But surely, surely in you, you’ll know
None, ever, cares.

In the average expectancy of our bubble
Nothing beyond the coating brings status
No event, ever, will be cosmogonal
For anyone but those present and/or the witnesses
Because all those missing won’t care.

Similarly, none will remember them.

Your highest joy and your deepest sorrow
Everything that defined and brought you here
Everything you let tear you down
Simply because you hoped it’d be worth it in the end
Are forever, for all, insignificant.

There’s a man on my train wagon
Who I’d rather see asleep
With nothing to say
It is hard to sing like a bird
When they all have only one line to recall.

And surely, you are already wondering
How much you would have already seen
If you hadn’t read my words
And surely, surely inside you, you’ll know
How much you don’t care about them
And where they came from.