I don’t want to smoke a cigarette

unless you are watching me reproachfully

Because I get off on your disappointment

and when i feel your praise

It’s like a snake

That coils itself slowly around my thigh

And finds its way through me

I have been thinking in vivid memory
Of being alive in Lesbos with Kosta
And taking the long way home
From Mileas to Plomari
Through the olive groves
He wanted to show me the deafening silence of the mountains
And the whitest night sky i had ever seen
I stood for a while with my head leaning back
And in that moment I felt a sadness

An epigenetic longing
For the land of “sh’s” and “ch’s”
Where ali pasha is proudly preserved
like bitter orange rinds
and served with a glass of water for dessert

Tucked in between valleys of bare karst
The undisturbed solitude makes the human body
Convulse into screaming hysteria
And desperate for shade
wander to the old plane tree
Where barbas
teach how to be masters
Of time, dice, coffee, and cigarettes

Sometimes I imagine myself doing push ups and getting stronger
While I think about everyone I know
 and how I feel like a cloud against time against the setting sun
or the wind

Watching from up here
The way I watch a man i’ve just fucked get ready in the morning


Why is it so hard to talk about a journey
To survey the perfectly laid out
cobblestone streets
that corroborate dreams
Or memory
of all the wooded rocky paths
That have led to somewhere

My head is down
Eyes feeling the ground
For any blemish that might make me trip
And fall
and stumble

And grip the ground with my hands
Instead of my feet
An illusion

That makes that moment, 
in conjunction with reality, 
so sad
And hard for me to greet.

I am the dog
That eats the poisoned strawberries
Poisoned by the witch
I am the dog that stumbles down the stairs
No one else
Will eat the strawberries
The poisoned poisoned strawberries
Poisoned by the witch the witch
We stumble down the stairs


No no no
It looks nothing
Like your criss crossed
Nonsensical idiotic
Ugly too thick
Fucking retarded
Lines going all over
The paper with no
Purpose or direction
And not enough money
Or responsibility
I mean really
Your inability to
Draw your fire
As realistically as I can draw mine is
Draw it
    Draw it more like this

Her pencil glides over the paper with effortless finesse. Each line knows exactly what it should be doing. 

“Ah, yes, there it is. There on the page. A fire. Just like that.” She sighs and puts down the pencil in front of me. “Here, now you try if you want.”

Slow glow and flickering light
Humming and moaning
Tremolo chanting
Subtle shifting
Leather purses peel off leather seats
Stockings slipping
Standing sitting
Wax hot dripping
Wave a hand here
Press your fingers there
Bow kiss dab
Wine bread
Receiving sacrifice of the undead