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Να ντύνονται οι νύχτες τη μορφή σου, κι εσύ να μην το ξέρεις. Ν’ απλώνει ο ουρανός το σχήμα σου να πάρει, και να μη φτάνει. Κι εγώ πώς να στο πω. Όλο σκοτάδια να υφαίνω, ρούχο να πλέξω το κορμί σου, κι...
View Article2 bedroom flood to rent
palmfuls of time & with eyes containers of seasons i realize i’m moving out, moving in, same thing the room that was me and me that was room spaced out = legs outstretched amid all that lives in...
View ArticleRetroflex
you’re the kind of beautiful that lurks under the tongue & i’m this black glow waters assume when you’ve had too many a whisky and you’re walking the promenade at night i wonder what the point is...
View ArticleThe Sea’s Birthday
Almost, like fish dreaming like Alexander Graham Bell like the wind’s caprice beating haircut directions, scattering DNA strands in the cool of the universe. Like cinnamon stirred in...
View ArticleLines you may use to win me over
Once, I wished you were so tiny I could hide you in the cavity of my tooth. Now there’s nothing mysterious in China coupling the heat the day could be most treasured our secret endeavour. For you I’d...
View ArticleWaterloo
I believe time is a machine I believe it will once break there is a good service on all London Underground Lines. In my blood begs the city in my blood runs the city there is a good service on all...
View ArticleΚοιτάζει ανατολικά η θάλασσα
Αύγουστος ’13 Ποια εξουσία σαν Ποίηση ασκείς πάνω μου θηρίο πολυμήχανο ο έρωτάς σου ίδιο κινέζικο μυθιστόρημα κορμί μαγνητοφωνημένο ουρλιάζει στο παράθυρο του ονείρου μου να βγω. * Και βγαίνω. Ντυμένος...
View ArticleUnlost
The mornings here possess a quality that strives to make you strong. The hours that wear your face always follow me about and I know them the blankets of my soul. Translators’ loves last forever like...
View ArticleIstanbul
Bir buluşma yeridir şimdi hüzünlerimiz. [It is a meeting place now, our sadness.] – Edip Cansever, Turkish poet …I wake up. I make coffee and look from my apartment at Bosporus. I’ve been training my...
View ArticleGospels of the Night
Look. How light unfolds over our tongue. How your tongue is my tongue. How language gives birth to winds. Always. It always rains when I’m born. I. Belligerent. Limerent. Languid. Indolent. If you cut...
View ArticleWhat I talk about when I’m silent
The catechism of rain on your window that continues undeterred is me a narrative of weather on my own whether read or water transparent a current, parent to words and enraptured your cultured the...
View ArticleLet’s never talk about love
you smile exactly like a pagoda hurricanes reach speeds of 200mph and God is extinct in bed I’m the anarchist no borders & my talk complete asyntactic instead you’re an aspirin without the g, my...
View ArticleTo Sink My Teeth Deep into the Sun
Ecclesiastic lovemaking this morning I think of basilicas & thyme in other eras thoughts thalassic I’m thirsty for balconies, dawns, anything that churches the unimaginable. * Some nights I’m...
View ArticleAge of Carnivores
recent ly I chat with the sky mostly I don’t want answers re love you see and thank fuck atheists don’t find god in corners like First & Amistad our suicide rates are significantly higher only...
View ArticleThree Love Poems & a Song of Limerence
Wassily Kandinsky – Movement I (1935) Three Love Poems & a Song of Limerence I I always find myself talking about love when I talk about you. hanging out with Stendhal proved illuminating, but not...
View ArticleTemple
In the East someplace there’s got to be a temple where devotees of the wind spend all the day silent secret as bees, deaf as a man underwater or man-under-train, gasping for breath far from our...
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View ArticlePersiflage
who plays god in your head what secret screams in your sleep what is your real name In the wonderful mess of her mind albino plants are nests for hugtandalfers and she uses astrolabes as haute teacups....
View ArticlePoem to the Girl in the Library
no astraphobic reaction to eyes, no Suzie Q’s, intimacy with the floor & ugly pugilism I alone determine when the universe magics up— and Joyce tells me nil in 942 pages and my words aren’t...
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