WORDS OF EXTRAVAGANCE

I set up words of extravagance, you avoid them, throw them farther away, hoping you'll catch them someday. To capture your own words and shamelessly chew them slowly and painfully.

The poem will come, wounded and innocent, bringing purification.

COLUMN OF WATER

It rains for a month, opening umbrellas of messages, but it doesn't know that the cloud is perforated and that it has been programmed with a dark finger.

Two or three showers fall upon it, an immovable column of water, heavy and painful drops, dripping moist verses.

SHE HAD CAUGHT AN SPRING

Close the window, so the dust cloud settles, she told her. And the dust settled. That’s how she realized she had caught a spring while it was deep autumn, almost winter.

Sun, but its rays hurt her sharply. The leaves were golden but fragile, scattering into pieces. She had caught a spring, and now she was returning to the season she needed.

MEASUREMENTS

The little horse of the Virgin sat in the corner of the table. Don’t disturb it, I told you. You cut it with your pruning scissors.

At the same time, my words, mutilated electronically, gradually fell down and remained as a dark, thick sediment in a traditional Loumidis coffee cup. And don’t ask if we lost something in the meantime. Everyone counts their own loss.

TITIVIZAN ABOUT TENDERNESS

She had secured dominance in the space. To behave like a child, to try a fruit and leave it half-eaten, to hold food with her hands and scatter potato chips on the floor.

It was when evening fell that she wore mythical dresses, gypsy scarves, and necklaces. And when she spoke, the bats turned into small blackbirds, which newborns chirped about tenderness.