“I am a dwarf, diabetic and asthmatic;
and you lame, bald, phlebitic.
Let us meet, you and I,
that I might tell you how lovely you are
and how pretty your dress.”
This tale was told for the umpteenth time
by the extremely beautiful courtesan under the large canopy
with elegant sofas and replenished fruit bowls
the night before the battle of Aegos Potamoi
when a huge winged cockroach
went and landed on Alcibiadesʼ
crimson tongue which wagged brazenly and loudly.
VERSE (UK), No. 2, June 1987
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BLOODTHIRSTINESS
The honorary procession moved on in twos for the placing of the remnants of the great tregedienne in the showcase specially set up in the foyer of our National Theatre. A memorial service was held, the reliquary opened, a chorus of four women shook out the frayed dress, and little yellow porous bones fell on the velvet carpet. The ceremony ended with the heart-rending departure of her hundred and eighty pupils (all male) playing flutes of reed and mourning who, once round the corner, abandoned their sad looks, black ribbons and organs, took from their secret pockets chains, knives and crowbars, and rushed screaming into the main square where they attacked the unsuspecting habitues of outdoor cafes by hitting, stabbing and crushing them to death, and thus satiated they gathered and left in twos.
OASIS (UK), No. 61, September 1993
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THE GOLDEN WEEPING VASES
In summer some people want to appear more vigorous,
especially those who feel that all has vanished
that is of any weight and consequence, even from their veins,
and those who spent a fortune on self-preservation.
They do not feel the hook which grabs them by the neck.
The notice Villa Aphrodite – Private Residence
and their barbiturates suffice for the year round,
with the exception of summer. Then you see them
tearfully breaking down before beauty
and desperately begging for a little borrowed light,
reminding one at such times of Agaue
as she holds up the head of Pentheus to the Maenads
before recovering, her soul covered with blood.
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*
THE WITCH DOCTORS
In the woods where each year they hold their savage ritual
they gather on the appointed day at midnight
and force the finest warrior and hunter in the land
to strip and dance on burning coals
to the point of moaning and afterwards thus suffering from burns
and blisters which burst with a sickening clacking sound
at the slightest touch
to make love in open view with the ugliest woman
the most timid the most parched and perverse
and should a child be born to be raised apart
aged prematurely and killed and so succeed
at last in creating a superb black-skinned relic
which will compel other saints
when our tears shine to repent for their miracles.
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*
THE DISTINGUISHED BODY
Cockroaches, mice and locusts appeared on the holy mount,
gnawing sacred skulls, and bones
of secondary saints in sacks.
Panic also broke out in the town where everyone
stays up all night in darkened rooms –
and you discern this by a stifled cough,
a sob, a sigh, or a creaking chair.
A black, crawling, horrendous panic.
And some wore heavy crucifixes and knotted ropes,
and others lit thick white candles on large candelabras
specially placed at the crossroads.
And each night the archpriest tumbled like a puppet
before the cathedralʼs so-called miraculous statue,
and behind him the entire clergy mumbled exorcisms and prayers,
keeping vigils behind closed doors and resorting
to apocryphal, daemonic books.
Many called for animal sacrifices.
Only a few dared suggest human ones.
The young guitarist goes to the beach each morning,
undresses and swims for hours.
Afterwards he lies naked on the farthest rock:
absolute, magnificent and totally indiscreeet.
Back in town the rest of the people sink
all the more in their guilt.
OASIS (UK), No. 56, November 1992
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THE YIELD OF THE BREADFRUIT
In simple monastic orders and in grim communes certain headstrong monks kneaded in holy bread excrement, mucus and splintered glass, supporting the wisdom of their action so zealously that the next generations reacted by painting their legs gold, wearing expensive clothes and jewelry, and living loosely for the rest of their days, overweight and satiated, finally being buried in individual tombs and not mass cenotaphs as was customary in the days they lived in simple monastic orders and in grim communes.
OASIS (UK), No. 61, September 1993
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DEVELOPMENTS
Very often in the small hours of the morning faces lose their clear complexion and become more pallid than the Minotaurʼs, as though subjected to an inquisition – the one that, it is said, shall pervade the earth – the skin limpid, the features odd and resonant, noisesome like white linen kept in lavender for ages in a chest as a dowry for the next generation which in turn preserves it without using it, maybe because agony exceeds the span of time – and certainly by default – so easily that I wish this poem would be a piece of rag, a caress in the grey-blue skies of tomorrow, to comfort me or better still to absolve my mind from knowing the reason why very often in the small hours of the morning faces lose their clear complexion.
OASIS (UK), No. 65, March 1994
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DONʼT SPEAK OF SUCH THINGS AT THE TABLE
The last of our tenants left, leaving behind them bundles of filthy clothes and empty rooms, thus sparing us of discipline, soirees, conviviality, dainty napkins, and foreign languages. But it would be presumptuous to speak of changes, which anyway wear off after first impressions. That is why we now allow the usurer free access to the courtyard; and he on his promenades mumbles: “Super,” “Splendid,” and peels off scabs on his cheek, as from afar is heard the monotonous sound of a pianoʼs top note which began the moment the last of our tenants left.
OASIS (UK), No. 65, March 1994
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THE PRACTICALITY OF VISION
At a time of merriment and drinking in the spacious cabaret, his eyes are fixed on the finest figure and time instantly becomes more intrinsic, to the point that amidst the hustle and the bustle he remains aloof and feigns hiding in the basement, waiting to emerge when the show has ended and the place locked up; and now, having the chairs to himself, he goes around in the total darkness stroking them, sitting on them, pretending to be different persons chatting to imaginary companions about waste, knavery, vagrancy – intriguing topics which cause the mind to clot and sizzle like an omelette on a hot stove – lauding the present and lamenting the future; but in the nick of time a tiny blood vessel on his brow, like a stigma on an Easter lamb, begins to twitch rythmically, crying: “In vain you slept, Oberon, Oberon,” bringing him back with a jolt to a time of merriment and drinking in the spacious cabaret.
OASIS (UK), No. 61, September 1993
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ONCE
The foreign athletes arrived for the three-day meeting, the whole town echoed with flexing muscles and carefree cackling, everyone was carried away and stopped keeping time with the rowersʼ strokes, jovial porters let fall the statues on their backs, women in the shops bought costly dress materials of a foreign sounding make, servants idled away time on balconies, dancers in the streets enacted the death of a rose or a swan, the crippled from the environs sold flags in barrows, childrenʼs choirs sang paeans on the acropolis, youths in short tunics and opalescent maidens depicted ancient rites, interpreters prattled into microphones, priests paraded miraculous icons, the Reformatory Minister gave speeches every hour just where the main streets fuse into a square, cat-smelling informers crossed themselves, and in the general commotion, Errikos – his surname I shall reveal another time – managed to sought out and shoot in the ankles the son of our only runner, that succeeding generations might know that at least one of us did the right thing at the time when the foreign athletes arrived for the three-day meeting.
OASIS (UK), No. 61, September 1993
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*
AVANE POUR UNE SAISON
Molto funebre
The mansionʼs interior decoration is changed every spring, and big trucks arrive with rare pieces of furniture and delicate artifacts, without taking away the old stuff thrown out in the backyard by the servants. With the coming of summer pass youthful parties in bathing suits who look upon the discarded pieces with derision, while behind the fine curtains the old ex-nobleman in a silk dressing gown, tears in his eyes, fixes his neckerchief and withdraws to the mansionʼs interior.
OASIS (UK), No. 61, September 1993
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DADDY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?
I would hide under the table and watch my father frenziedly stick a fork into his hand and bleed, while the others went on eating; but since he could transform himself like a lizard, when he raised his hands they dripped either with juice of red fruit or the colour of chocolate ice cream. He saw me as a chum in awe of his stamina, that is why I never divulged that it sufficed that I watched him suffer alone and in secret. Besides, for what other reason would I hide under the table?
OASIS (UK), No. 56, November 1992
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*
R.S.V.P.
Regrets only
How complacent, how indifferent people are in times of plenty, with seven crops in a year and governed by a coalition of gluttons. That is why in broad daylight the town looks so spruce and proper. However, in the evenings both aliens and natives indulge in mass orgies at the governorʼs mansion opposite the large white house with the weeping willows, where the aged, blind seeress sits forgotten in her drawing room and the deaf-mute servant absorbs all prevailing sounds as she goes about clearing the table before retiring for the day in her basement room to dream of the young armed guard sent by us to break down the door, killing them both, and lie on top of their blood-ridden bodies, complacent and indifferent.
OASIS (UK), No. 56, November 1992
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WHITE AND FIENDISH DARKNESS
In the coffin they put sawdust or rags under the body to lift it and this of course is revealed only at the exhumation, because who would dare tamper with the corpse during the funeral service or afterwards over the grave when gravediggers untie the hands and the living sprinkle earth and turn away leaving their beloved to become fertilizer? And not only the rags but other things come to light at the exhumation: a hair comb, gold teeth, nylon stockings, jewelry, as a wedding ring of a woman in black which could not be removed for a swollen finger and the next of kin took it badly when the mortician suggested breaking the bones and they answered with dismay “Never mind,” fearing that it brings bad luck or maybe because when faced with death everyone shows his better self and wants to offer – as is evident from the sumptuous funerals, being not so much a way of showing off but a necessity – the last wordly rites which in themselves are useless, since the deceased is oblivious of such courtesies and alone grows pale, stiff and cold, and finally emits all fluids, making a mess of everything, so that in the coffin the undertaker puts sawdust or rags under the body.
