Convince Your Mirror

Not all people’s words are the same.
For some, they are the sounds of a pack, syllables they can
copy together with the illusion of understanding. They are the
articulation of an agreement for those that cannot learn to
write. They are a crippled alphabet that
fits the current declarations of a parasitic Present, plosives
that tomorrow will reek of expired preservatives.

Not all people’s silence is the same.
For some, it is not the product of a decision, it is not the womb
of a process. It is simply and exactly all that they cannot tell,
it is the perfect silence in the absence of inherent noise, in the absence
of a disorder that requires time to turn into a conclusion. For some,
silence is not a choice, it is the natural absence of any
self.

Not all people’s tears are the same
For some, the flow is a natural part of a slippery slope, always and only
from the world towards them, always and only due to a cause that was never
born inside of them. Foreign words, foreign actions, foreign
insatiables: childish tears, always and only for everything that is
happening to them (or not happening to them) but never for all that they
are (or that they are not).

Not all people’s will is the same
For some, it exists only as a goal in conjunction with all others, the
definition in accordance with the place of the term in a pre-made sentence.
Poised searches in their essence, retroreflective orbits around the
core of their value axis. A street fair of patches and ornaments
weaved on the puppet of a self.

Not all people’s destiny is the same.
For some, it is the effortless road towards an immemorial end,
a long line of regretless exchanges of skin for skin, a
succession of nameless memories like a grading list of
exams that matter nought. Painless steps,
always in between and never towards, always until now and never until
there, a lullaby for those kids that get confused when
the music changes.

Not all people are the same.
For some, words are just useful, silence is their natural
accent. For some, tears are the reaction to a
stimulus, the reflex of an insect. For some people,
a goal is the sum of foreign concepts, a homogenization with
the collective zero, and an assimilation with the millionth nothing.
Their fate is to imitate, to reflect, and to be used.

Not all people are the same.
Except for them.
The ones that let you down.

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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
Whole
That flaw is an ingredient of
Perfection
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.

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.