dream let me dream
the small sky that suddenly expands ..oh it expands to new sky sea like horizons
I give you only a glimpse..I am tired and i am ready to go to sleep to see the rest
like dreaming… in hydra isle to see the rest like dreaming………
going from kalimnos the sponge island
to Patmos the holy island it was a journey that took me twenty years
my most hypnotic and
moral,amoral thoughts become very lucid when i visit this place
also known as a butterfly isle on account of its schematic idiosynchracy
in its imaginary holiness,
heretical the ascetic
are mysteries preserved in their purity, or falsified
and alloyed with fictions
living not atheistically the mode of the believer
but i am a poet i must travel eloquent than any lips
birth, place, inspiration, give me the baptism and my fate
with a new glimpse into the human garden
happy as in Eden.
to climb to those lofty and sublime peaks
without reservations and cares
( i spend so much time waiting,wasting)
and after I ate,and drunk the holy wine
and bathed in the Aegean brahma
i felt so buoyant like a moth into the blood of Greece
a voice came from the north wind
compelling me to say…..to hydra to hydra isle … Saronikos gulf cannot wait

your glow has diminished in the eternal now
leaving behind a thin trail of darkness
that is more of a feel a smell in the night
and i barefoot i with my oracle kiss
with some thought of solitude without faith
that leads me outward to you like love
mystical and shy without any art of persuasion
a saint on my last grain of desire
into the chambers of museums
and dressing rooms of oracle like
tourist Apollo with your ivory Egyptian
sailor eyes now hanging on the wall
eats the jelly of the bull
searching for stoned prophesies
from the measured light
stealing the ancient afternoons
mute as fish angel of sleep
among gold tapestries of flesh
and you breath into my mind holy smoke
behind your eyes fixed like ivory holy ghost

on the top of this ancient hill the most mysterious
objects are still hidden by modern manners unnoticed
myths dramas of euripides and sophocles and the tourists
and the new modern immigrants walking as playing the chorus parts
but aphonous archaic reliefs with fast movements of the new land
our bodies before the music starts behaving
as small amniotic universes
and our modernistic sad spaces are not for real
so our hands have the same form without motion
our walking dance mimic our dramas and our looks suffer
more and more in this expressionistic theatre of life

She lay beneath the blanket, fully awake —

another sleepless night

and she mindlessly counted

the drips of water as they gently

splashed into the bathroom sink.

1, 2, 3, (the number of times she

has given birth.)

4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, (the number of years

she has been remarried.)

10, 11, 12, (the number

of years since her divorce.)

and on she went until she arrived at 49 —

(her age, as of her last birthday.)

She closed her eyes and envisioned her days

as the seemingly endless drips of water —

passing one by one —

slowly at first, then quickly until one seemed to

flow into the other —

“the sea of life,” she mused —

until eventually, the “tap” would run dry —

a thought that more often than not, frightened her.

She lost count somewhere before 250,

then tossed and turned in her sleep

as notions of drowning invaded her dreams,

while she fitfully floundered to keep her

head above water.

like a forgotten work of art an ikon hang in a wall of flowers

left idle by time and social system in the open air monastery you are a

purified rose against my thorn of lust

corrupted by your beauty rituals

a stream of light you radiate

clothe me with grey looks of erotic eyes

shadow lips that have the taste and vision of sorrow

dedicated to the ancient virginity that speaks the silence of doves

and i escapee for island harmonies

taste your bitter lemons of sin

in love with the words that were never spoken

in the end of space where the blue light

phantom of mauve shadows lies

holy shy in the measured touch of night

and other forbidden dreams that feeds my ascetic mind

behind the mask of love , your mask of your Franciscan eyes

at the sunset voices of children were born
self-imposed loneliness in exasperation of
olive branches of coral wind to
translate the nocturnal purpose
of flesh and blood libraries with no books.
word and image smell dust and oregano
salty zephyr the force of confrontation
of the the distant symbols of life
underground tour de force lamented over the sea
acting deteriorating like a surrealist aesthetic poem
dissecting my mind
ablaze with light
nothing nothing i would give more of your embrace
amorous lover and even far away— in the light
anything that is left has minimum logic
how to win one life in the forgetting of eros
then love was the cloth of the soul and your solitude
your eyes windtornbitten sea anemone
seeking always never seeking my stigmatized body
that is hiding in your body crevices rolling and side-falling
and thirsty for the sight of lust
i make you i brake you
you make me you brake me
my mind wide awake, lucid ?lives every unhappiness
an ocean of nothingness
passes beyond all things, escaping
leaves my door open to all sins
and listens to the sirens of the aegean