Μαθηματικά Γυμνασίου

Όμορφη νύχτα.
Όμορφοι άνθρωποι.
Αγαπημένοι.
Κι άλλοι, ακόμα πιο αγαπημένοι.
Και στη μέση της νύχτας
Κάπου στα βόρεια
Μεσογείων, Μαραθώνος,
Στα ψηλά, στα χαμηλά.
Υπάρχει, λένε, διαφορά
Ανάμεσα στο να ξεχνάς
Και στο να μη θυμάσαι.
Δεν ξέχασα ποτέ τίποτα.
Κι άμα θυμάμαι, θυμάμαι τα καλά
Κι άμα μιλάω, λέω μόνο τα δόκιμα
Τα δίκαια, τα αρμόζοντα
Τα προφανή, τα δεδομένα
Τα συμβάντα.
Μα μη γελιέσαι
Δεν ξέχασα ποτέ τίποτα.
Η εικόνα που έχω κρατήσει
Μπορεί να ‘ναι εικόνα αγάπης
Μα δεν υπάρχει θλίψη σε αυτήν.
Και τα λόγια που σου είπα
Μένουν πάντα αλήθειες
Μα δίχως μετάνοια.
Άδειος ο δρόμος
Έγραψε 160 κάπου εκεί το κοντέρ
Μετά τη στροφή
Και ούτε καν που κοιτούσα.
Δεύτερη φύση, ακόμα
Κι ας πάει πόσο
Κάτι τέτοια έλεγα μετά
Στα ωραία, τα αργά
Φιλοσοφίες για να γυαλίζουν
Τα ματιά τους.
Σε όποιο χωροχρονικό πλαίσιο που
Σηκώνει μονάδες μέτρησης
Και να το δεις
Ποτέ ο άσος δε θα πέσει
Πάνω στο μηδέν –
Δεν πιστεύω στο ψευδο-φ
Και τις χρυσές αναλογίες.
Αλλά ένα τσιγάρο και δέκα ποτά,
Του πούστη,
Τα χωράμε και χωρίς άλγεβρα.
Εκτός αν γίναμε πια τόσο εύκολοι
Που τα θέλουμε όλα δύσκολα.
Μαθηματικά γυμνασίου:
Υπάρχουν πράγματα που ενώ προστίθενται
Μηδενίζουν.

Υ.Γ. Αλλά στο ράδιο έπαιζε αυτό, να ξέρεις https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVm-GAKZWFE

IXI

I saw today in my sleep
That I was dragging you from your hair
As if you didn’t know how to leave
As if you didn’t know how to walk.
And I remember thinking
That some dreams don’t end
I remember saying that eternity
Isn’t what lasts forever
Only what repeats itself.
I could tell you now
About how all this is just words
Of cheap four-dimensional mockery
And that eternity exists
In a thousand forms – just not for us.

I saw today in my sleep
That you were secretly crying
As if I didn’t know you could
As if I didn’t know I was to blame.
And I remember thinking
That in dreams we are never over
I remember saying that sleep
Is the last illicit refuge
A small castle made from grains of seconds.
I could tell you now
About how all this is just words
Words like me and like you
And that some people
Speak in their sleep.

Today I will never sleep again
Yesterday I will never be awake again
And tomorrow
Tomorrow I was the dream.

I saw today in my sleep
That I only said a few words
As if you knew how to listen
As if you knew how to believe.
And I remember thinking
That I am too weak to fight the demons
And that I never learned how to accept help.
Today I will not sleep
And if in my wake I see a dream
I will drag it from the hair towards the sun
As if it knows how not to burn
As if it knows how not to cry
When it sees that it has no shadow.

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.

Words

I didn’t have words
Even though I spoke too much.
I had no words
Even though I needed them all.

I had no words
Because I believed in silence.
I had no words
Because they were hidden in pages.

A thousand times I looked
And in all of them, I saw you.
A thousand times the same street I saw
From its same one beginning.

“We’re here” I said, and I was lying:
We were never there, in whole.

I didn’t have words
Only those fabricated by the mad ones
The ravenous
Words we invented
So they could be heard over the noise of the world
If it ever so happened that it shrunk like tonight
Even for a little while, even now, always again.

A thousand times to be lost
It’s the same inexplicable that finds me
Even if you are given to me a thousand times
I will never have words
The same words that you don’t have
Those words which, like us, we keep unspoken
Precious not even though
But because they are unneeded.

Lasciate ogni Speranza

I tried to write that which I don’t know in a way that perhaps
you’d be able to explain to me. I tried to set apart the
point constants of space, the lost, the distant, the unknown,
from the only axiom of time: change.
I tried to comprehend how the end brings only something
that we are not yet, how every start is bloodstained but innocent
due to its amnesia.
I tried to tell you that lost, distant, and unknown is something
just because it is that way already, now, and still – but never
for what time will do to us. Then, what’s lost will always be
someone else’s lost – and we don’t care. Then, what’s unknown
will be the equations that didn’t impress us – and we don’t care.
I tried to tell you that we never just forget, it’s only that our lives
don’t have merely one protagonist. We are neither a novel
nor a drama, we are short stories, read by different pairs of eyes each time;
and I tried to explain to you what I see under this cliché and
it’s not that I forgot, I just didn’t see it.
And I tried to tell you that from time to time, the white in between the short stories
emits a scent before it gets here
and that my life keeps on drowning in that scent.
And I know that there’s always a start for the person who will be me
and I know there’s always an end for myself. And I tried to apologize to you,
for the abandonment of the self that you are now, for the fact that
I will be something lost for a little while, something lost, distant, and unknown
– and that perhaps you might care.

I tried to tell you to come find me when you too change into the self that
will be you. I tried, until I realized the obvious – you won’t care.

Bonfire

I grew melancholic
over the idea of broken wings,
until I believed that one can in fact draw in the sky.
Then I had to reconcile the absolute with the relative,
the irrevocable with the volatile,
fact with chance.
And if all that bear a name are mere conventions,
isn’t this diffuse enough to be charged as absolute?
And what if the irrevocable has multiple forms,
and what if facts are nothing more than what we chanced upon
within a sea of lots we claimed nonexistent?

I grew fearful
over the idea of one forlorn prospect
within a gigantic horde of ugly and comparable identical ones;
of a David who juxtaposes his romantic part
against a realistic Goliath.
But I believed in the gargantuan of the world
and that made me small.
Small, tiny, like a virus.
But it is the small roads that have the fewer tolls
and turnpikes;
and when I was myself the grain
I learned that we sift out prospects from our antigens,
and that finding a needle in a haystack is simple:
it only takes a lighter’s spark.

P.S. For now I hide; like then, like still.

Αδιόρθωτα

Γύρισα.
Ανεβαίνω τη Σταδίου.
Όμορφη νύχτα.
Και πριν και τώρα.
Πρώτο φανάρι. Δεύτερο. Τρίτο. Τέταρτο.
Μπαίνω Φιλελλήνων.
Πρώτο, δεύτερο φανάρι. Κάπου εκεί λέω να στρίψω αριστερά. Να ανέβω Αμαλίας και μετά δεξιά Βασιλίσσης Σοφίας και Μεσογείων – όπως κάποτε.
Τέτοια ώρα.
Κάπου δυο-τρεις το πρωί. Τέτοια ώρα πάντα, κάποτε.
Να περάσω τη γέφυρα και να γελάσω κάπου εκεί στο φανάρι για Παπάγου που το ξεχνούσα πάντα.
Να θυμηθώ ότι θα έχουν κλείσει το δρόμο για πάνω – κάτι για φωτιές, δεν κατάλαβα ποτέ κι ας έκανα πως.
Κι ύστερα πάλι να σε θυμάμαι να μιλάς για την αγαπημένη σου ώρα, βράδυ, στο αυτοκίνητο, καλοκαίρι, με το παράθυρο χαμηλωμένο, στο αυτοκίνητο, με ένα τσιγάρο στο χέρι που ποτέ δεν επέτρεπα μα πάντοτε άναβες.
Να σε θυμάμαι, αιώνες πριν, σε μια πιλοτή.
Παιδιά.
Εγώ σίγουρα, κι εσύ μάλλον κι ας μη το λεγες.
Και σήμερα αποχαιρέτησα για πάντα ένα παιδί.
Και δεν είμαστε παιδιά πια ρε γαμώτο.
Δεν έχουμε όλο το χρόνο, δεν μας ανήκει.
Ποτέ δεν τον είχαμε.
Τώρα ακόμα λιγότερο.
Δεν έστριψα.
Τι νόημα παρά μια χούφτα ξεπεσμένες αναμνήσεις.
Μα δε μένει και τίποτα άλλο.
Ξέρεις, δεν είναι που όταν έρχομαι αναπολώ το παρελθόν.
Αυτό το κάνω κι από μακριά.
Είναι απλά που,
στιγμές,
αναρωτιέμαι πώς μπορείς να ζεις χωρίς εμένα.