By Yannis LivadasNight from within night
We change hands like a coin
Modern elements
Our sprouted laughter
The movement of the gulls away
From the sea
Some waves reach perfection
The eye of the orphic raft
Is glancing eyeless and unsuited to the sinkage
I’m in a state of alert
I’m aware of my interest
Same as the night
I waste no minute
A cogwheel falls in the sink
I’m breaking down in front of the mirror with a
Creative annulment:
The oncoming man.
Sky threads sew me
Into the cavities of time
I’m the tree of the remedies
With roots in the western and the eastern poles
I’m the weather in the most fearful cities
A radio transistor in the shantytown a luster
Of bronze to the childless palace
A command forgotten
A map folded
The first apple of history
Ever learning from the venerable propaganda's of the souls
In the buildings of intellection
I make fun
Stagger
Otherwise
I’m extending
I open.
Under certain circumstances
Beauty continues
The light the bombshells the balloons
But nothing from all these does not thrill as much as
The sun disks between the shopping
The statue of a liberty at the feet of some eros
I’m loaded with scandals that take form
Like mandalas
Upper and lower levels
Messages of life like tidewater
Iridescence that give you fear for seconds
Meanings with not even a poem
Thumps when you are absent on the door
Death in the roses under the cold
Lights in the flower shops of the night
The coal fire of a carefree visionary.
And lately
Something is heard of
Openhearted mouths,
Bonus,
To look out.
I cover the poem like
Grass covers the grave
Like devil covers the milk
The apathy of a gargoyle
That reveals
Lonesome internal crowds.
I find my place via words
Buried pillars that delay
The wave to the fire
We have big mouths ideas
Who dislodge from icebergs
And become headlines
The earth that echoes our shatter
Continents devastated by dreadful
Alphabets
In the bar I get drunk with a bottle of tears
It’s because of the mucus of some enclosing phalanx
Variety of dimensions
An orchestration of ceased windmills
New fortunes of planets
The climax of the worship of modern verse
Leads to an attic of rats
The mob’s shocking feeling of tedium
Since be spared of madness
My existence becomes a religion
From the unction of some tender injustice
Lust like diamonds plod.
I’m typing under the heaviest burden
The solidification of emptiness
One iromancy
As if there are no other elements
Like the lions race
Before enter our thought
Under the shadow of this
Bust of time.
Someone from the rudeness
Is spinning golden courses of words in the air
The evil
Spearmint
Whirling
Vulva of universes
Discord of characters
A page of expansion written
By the fashion of death
Spread wide open –
Pedagogic, the restructures
Of the libraries and the real heroes
With bad outcome –
I surmount the evil counting with whispers a
Greater magnitude
I grasp life with my hands and is warm
The future is manning in the papers of the poet
With the tangible and the unreal
With the ivy and the wall
With the mouth of the nightingale in the blast of the storm
The temporary gives birth to
The everlasting.
Death is
Ripe bananas
The worst
I could think
Doves at midnight driving a police car
And I for no reason
No reason I kiss you
Put my signature
I cut a loaf of emptiness
And I lie esteemingly on
Nothing solid in the marvelous
We bind the sun with a wire
For half an hour
We trumpet it around
Printed letters
Letters big letters small
We drink them
We laugh at them
We grind them for dust
Darn it!
Even if the sun is made of cashmere
And comes out from the attic window of our belly
When night birds guard our oblivion
In inflammable forests.
A wooden statue with cheap offerings
Is inexplicable raised outside the house
And inside yes all the forms of the crushing chronology;
To connect you must be connected
Think on the basis of anatomy
Think of the brothers who lay in absolute indolence
Think nothing
Except the fact that a poem may someday
Be absent
May be everywhere written
Its natural origin means something
It’s an invitation
For Parthenon to find a place
On Himalayas
With the gold of the American bank to
Make shoes or sweet nothings
To bury everything into a dwarfish earth.
Albatross emerge from the earth.
At dawn the star of my prayer
Got shored up
All that happens in the world is minor
Pompously washed up obscurities
Inside the thought of an inconceivable reflection
Dusts
Flaming of the voices
Pulleys and counterweights
Secrets of the movement of life
Wholeness powerless fairly worn
Use
Of the lexicons
The wild nature
The whirls of declination
The walled glare –
Pain is a rock
That crumbles into my blood creating
Chasms.
Signal before the eclipse
Of the tones and the sequence of the routes
Wishes on postcards that don’t represent
Anything
Ancestral skulls debase and roll
To philanthropy –
From under you do not understand much.
More unrefined points
Tissues clapping and be clapped
Into continuities of posterior darkness
For denigration and evident estimation.
What carpe diem restrains you away.
Pose in the gallery of meat.
You have such tremors, while you see me drinking
The fuel of the immaculate camellia like water.
We are of the plurals.
We curse the destination
We are also immobile
Presences less and less recognizable
Like remnants with a slant look.
There is no meaning anymore.
Say their names –
Classicism, oligarchies to the dissimilar.
We are the grand-grandchildren of some strangers
We don’t surrender the soul
We leave a message a riddle of explicity
Two three steps away
You are alone:
The incident of birth
The signs of the times,
The trails of life the meditation of activity
The lights are out at dawn
Someone unseen
Has passed.
In darkness the so many ways of light,
Force is the female of life
The temptations of Saint Anthony
The gallop of the Remington
The tail of the whale
At the beach umbrellas striped
War and profit
You pay you get paid
The communication of the masks –
Conceptions of the many simultaneously
We suffer
The extra large do not fit to us
It’s a shame –
In the third decade of life
I revive from the preservation
Of an obscure rock-painting
Where everybody reads
His half-extinct
Line with difficulty.
The joy and sorrow of the idols,
But yet the thought that some day
Man will make it through –
We say over and over
Not that some day… but now
The whole being at the spectacles
Pencil-beatings
Ball-pen bruising
In the name of some wretched ontology
But I prefer a drink from golden hands
And outside the sleet to look like ribbons.
Dressed in the whole atmosphere
In every breath.
That’s how they call them: circumstances of the currents.
They know us all over the universe by
Our proper name
So you are aware of the perception why
I exploit harshly my existence
With gentleness,
That depends on you.
Together we put
Fire in the storehouse –
Moistened grains of salt and moon-twigs:
The way a decoy
With the decency of a suit
Becomes a sport a hobby of tomorrow.
Unregistered junctions of individualism's:
An enormous value misconceived
Like a mystical religion –
I am one of the Symbols.
Inaccessible then
The fields of the blossoms the turnings of times
The sword of the signature of poet
My page however
Is a beauty solid
Organic
Spot
Dangerous to read –
The pictures are no longer count
Veramente
Wild instincts
This is the new poem
Contrapunto
A prologue
Apteral Nike
Of one.
Yannis Livadas was born in Kalamata, Greece, in September 26, 1969. Done dozens of different works. He traveled around (India, Tunisia, Algeria, Italy, France, Morocco...) and today he lives temporarily in Athens, Greece. He is also a scholar and translator.
In 2003 he proclaimed “the Greek jazz poet”. He is considered as a Beat offspring but his poetry is oriented toward more dexterous and unsafe forms.
