“The boxer wants to caress, but there is no one to take off his gloves.”
The tender mortician did not graduate in Medicine, but he has memorized the body. After all, he never loved studying. He always caressed rather than read. Thus, he learned to speak the touch, as others speak of coffee and cards.
The tender mortician does not study the constellations, but whenever he finishes from the bars where the bitter hearts linger, he raises his gaze in anxiety, searching for the star that abolishes the self and articulates the togetherness. And he follows it, both magician and enchanted.
The tender mortician honors the memory of love not on St. Valentine’s Day, but on the night of St. Bartholomew, because he knows love, he also knows its death. (Is this why he insists on writing the bed with two betas? One for Valentine and one for Bartholomew?)
The poetry of George Domanianos is simply written to honor the war against oblivion. The tender mortician is George Domanianos’s third and venomous poetry collection, which disappeared almost immediately upon its appearance. It is now being reissued in a revised edition by Kappa Publishing.
(George Domanianos has published three books. “It is not cherry season” in 2015, “Every Breath” in 2017, and the first edition of “Tender Mortician” in 2019. Also, in the summer of 2019, his play “Phthongic Passions” was staged at the Athens Festival.)
