'The intellectual rights of all texts, images, videos presented in this blog belong with their creators and/or publishers. They are presented here only for personal use and not for any monetary gain whatsoever.'
Immortality of the Day Although things take place so slowly, we’re always in a rush an ant carries away seeds for the upcoming winter since winter is always on its way since it’s always winter since each familiar season has its unfamiliar winter with the light snow falling even under the merciless sun with its endless frost like the dead who sinned and their body remains intact in the grave since we have sinned and are also dead and our body remains intact during the night and each morning it throws away the soil of sleep and rises again and with a guilty smile combs its hair before the picture of yesterday’s then it mingles with the crowd since it is a sin to be alive, to walk about with your intact body maintained among the icebergs to get out of your eternal hiding place thin cadaver stammering about some immortality, everything takes place slowly, since time isn’t in a rush at all, even that ant in the beginning of the poem still carries away seeds for the upcoming winter although winter isn’t coming anymore.
It was a period ambience even then but it drew the global punter and I didn’t want to tinker with the formula. The curios and the industrial relics were doing well, a famous designer had just bought the shell of a Wurlitzer jukebox, while over in the clothes section, some sunny blonde creatures in cheesecloth and tight jeans were rummaging daintily through the old lace. Pauline the Sex Police Person would accuse me of self-indulgence there—yes, she was firing accusations even then—but this is a spiritual exercise, to recreate through sensuous evocation the exact details of that crucial afternoon. I was half-listening to the ritual shamblings of a local freak who claimed to be a secret roadie for Hawkwind. Every week he expounded his scheme for a Silver Machine to transport himself and the group to a deep space colony; then he’d pester me for obscure sword’n’sorcery items. “Thrustmasters of the Gormlands . . . Come on, man. It must be in here somewhere.” I never replied, because Larry was strolling through the doorway. As I got up, his long stone face, like an ethnic sculpture of Jean Paul Belmondo, cracked into a smile. Lawrence Alexander Zachoides-Dunbar, my general dealer with multi-way connections: a Greek father, a Scots mother, and an assumed Balham accent. His multiple pasts included Cambridge, half a doctorate in mediaeval literature, the curious end of the antique trade, and a cameo role in a celebrated dope bust. “You’re going to love this, Nick,” I can recall the exact cadence of his catarrhal chuckle, his leer, as he wedged open the bronze door of his old Jaguar 3.4. (I have to get his status details right. Before the Puritan Paramilitaries erase his memory from the surface of the earth.) I helped him inside with a tea-chest. Then we struggled with the battered black trunk on the roof-rack. “This little business is for the upper room,” he murmured. I told my assistant Willy to mind the shop; and hoped that his preoccupation with Krishna Consciousness wouldn’t leave him at the mercy of the more mercenary customers. We humped everything upstairs, cursing rusty protruding nails, and dumped it all beside the sagging sofa bed in my office, pushing aside the rumpled scrolls of day-glo posters,the heaped comix and sex mags. My fibre-optic desk ornament had been left switched on, like a luminous jelly-fish slowly expiring in the gloom. For the blinds of the upper room were never raised. This was my sanctuary, where I could get stuck into my tacky stuff. PP called it, with decreasing levity, the Chamber of Horrors. I fumbled at the sink with dirty cups and coffee powder. Larry pulled out Rizlas, and his tiny brass bird-shaped casket. He began skinning up.
Teeth Inside petals of the red rose let your mind suffuse and fantasize a myth dressed in white let it become the softest butterfly in the gnawing teeth of fear-devouring dreams let your vision be snowed deep in red rose petals butterfly image dressed black let it become the softest murmur gnawing teeth of fear rejoicing in hunger while your terminus appears stroking your diaphaneity
I Just Call to Say ‘I Love You’ Suddenly it came to me as I was listening to the song while driving. I thought of calling you; to stay quiet and place the microphone close to the radio so you can listen to it. Luckily my mobile phone battery had run out and I didn’t complete the call. It makes no sense anymore. Perhaps you would call me a melancholy person. The spontaneity and childish behaviour we all have, usually unexpressed, these days are called “sentimental”. When you are simple minded, childish, foolish, you aren’t taken seriously. Why? Is it because you can lift the receiver and for no apparent reason say a simple “I love you” just because you felt it and expressed yourself? If I had something to tell you about politics or the stock market I would be considered serious, otherwise I’m “sentimental.” Today I returned home exhausted. To conclude, my love for you combined with the sunken stock market and the economy going downhill wear me out. Forgive me, my love, I have to strength today to write more to you. The only think I can manage to say is: “I love you.”
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 