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The morning storm is taping my window ledge, making sounds that whisper of feelings and emotions of moments past, of sounds heard, of bodies touched.
It says I grew old, felt dizzy and forgot the noisy nightly gatherings, the sweaty handsome strokes, the smell on your complexion, the sighs and caresses.
These moments are now distant, vanished inside my brain that slowly is drying, they are memories transplanted from thoughts to scuffs and aging peeling scars.
Vehicle
It was afternoon around six, I sat in my car, ignited the engine and searched for stones with knowledge.
I drove and burnt the engine to talk with city dwellers that lived during the rain and underneath a bridge.
They spoke of distant places, forgotten roads lost, ravaged by illness, earthquakes, and storms. Their words were so frightening, they never left my thoughts, I scripted them on my elbow always to remember that everything
which rises eventually will fall.
Boredom
I sat in a beautiful room to eat a late dinner. The velvet wall, the purple chandelier kept me company while eating all alone. By the end, I was half asleep and while I was waiting to pay the bill, I recalled that white recurrent dream.
It is a ghostly vision that starts with a disk containing my brain alongside the leftovers from a lavish meal. My white hair are there too wrapped around the skin of many greenish maggots that eat the rot, the peel.
And that’s when I wake up wanting to move a bit, but nothing seems to shift, the moments only fold within, motionless they remain, pacing around the bed telling me to just forget.
These visions do not cheat, they only show the truth that my youth is gone, and it has been replaced by aged, demented notions that slowly take control.
Lost in my thoughts I pay and leave. I pace my steps and tell myself I need to stop accounting all the should-have-beens, so I can slowly bury the anger that is boiling beneath my peeling skin.
Wound
The circle I rejected since it cannot be drawn in a continuous perfect form. I thus bought myself a square which is so right and perfect, with leather books of wisdom.
After I moved inside it, I built several corners to file the open wounds, the ulcer from my childhood along with all the pills, the gifts my teachers gave me claiming they will transform me into the right sort of man.
I know the pills pierce my inner flesh; I know I should not take them so I can drown slowly from peptic acid green.
Escape
I left and let my gaze to change, my skin to peel, the face to shed away, to turn into a different thing, to take on another look.
But with confusing language, the pants became a tailcoat, my shoes turned into sandals, the belt was made in elastic blue, watch and hat together.
And when I finally returned, nobody really knew me. They thought I was some stranger; they spoke to me in English, and said in Greek among themselves,
“What a strange man, it’s better if he leaves.”
Nakedness
We fell and rose, and fell again, you and I, and him and them, you and them, with me and you.
We bathed and cleaned the naked scene, the human scent, the dirt, the sweat, the ripen stench of all that went and changed ahead.
The naked bodies that came along, some we knew, and most are gone.
We really did forget them all, and now alone deaf and small.
And time goes by, and we grow numb
unwanted old with wrinkled arms and flaccid hands.
The next morning, the sun was beautiful and strong, it rose and pushed the day on.
The sun that knows the inner cause, the
moments within, inside the vehicle because it’s old, the piercing headache that drops below, the stomach is cut dissected in two, the old bag rots in a historic book, the cows that chew expired food become thirsty after the feud.
Τhe bodies that fell and never walked, the grey hair on the tows, the peel, the orange, the cell phone, the rose, the dream, the hidden road, the lonely meal, the peeling skin, the linen blanket, the tie that turned from blue to green, the perfect corner, the circular anger, the tears retreat never revealed, the words are sharp, the blades have rust, the coffee is too dark, the sponge, the yellow grass, knowingly pretending that we are dumb, the coffee is poured over the mask, the pills, the acids inside the old leather bag.
Τhe alley of dreams on the steep hill, the moans, the sighs, the boredom around six, the wound heals and splits again, the valley across we dare no cross, escaping the now that loops and bores, the words that connotate even more, the verse confused unravels screams, the stairs do not lead where we wish, the dreams illusions in the dark, the desires strong when the night comes.
Τhe agony of the master plan, the no-where leading one-night stands, the not-a-something visits of love, the naked bodies desired not had, the smiles denied, the doors that shut, the happiness taken by those we love, what we should have said but never did.
These and even more, explode and break in pieces small, soaked in sighs and silent mourns, they disintegrate become a song, turn into words that come to haunt.
The words appear at lane’s end, and stand in line as they observe, they are getting ready to speak the hatred they possess. Their voices if not heard, they will erect thick walls of flesh. As they expose regrets and unfinished plans, the heat releases, the mind feels young and free to let the new to come.
And that is when the empty bag starts to think of unknown lands. The next quest starts with a step, taking a breath, moving ahead, leaving behind all that have passed, searching anew for hope and love.
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