Lab Log Book (LLB): Creating a man, dummy run Alpha001.

The man sat next to me

-Entered behind him the void-

He smelled of wine and cigarettes

The bus jerked and moved

His armpits ooze something nasty

I felt queasy

He groaned

-The void collapsed with the perfume of overly make upped teenage gils resembling parakeets looking at him then looking at me.-

The bus stopped. Somebody yelled at a boy to move (by the god of men the boy was subnatural) people laughed. I felt sorry for almost laughing with them then was disgusted with my nature, I thought I was different.

The bus filled its guts.

-An army of dancing hats advanced, sunglasses flanked me, sweat arrested me.-

I was unable to move.

-I threw at them the Geneva conventions.-

I was ignored.

Is that mint growing in the pots?

-I marched outside, in the yard of my prison that resembles so much my grandmother’s house.

A silk hand grenade exploded next to me. It was poorly manufactured with pieces of Egyptian cotton and must have severed some sort of connections in there because I lost the ability to control my eyelids.-

I was handed a ticket by this old woman, she wanted me to validate it using the machine next to me. What the hell, I can barely move my arms.

-I felt pain and fear. A kid with a lollypop stuck in its eyebrow was running, yelling, shaking and crying. Then they released the sugary steam and my lungs stung.-

Can’t you see there is little space for me, you and your newspaper? Let me read the headlines, war, poverty, man doing a whole bunch of evil unto fellow man, economy, adds, some girl with her tits exposed and a ten digit phone number.

-I was taken hostage once again this time by a team of rebellious cycles. The tires locked me in a cellar with pots of wine and some kind of syrupy substance I believe they use to grease their chains and sprockets. They say I am a spy and going to be executed.-

I looked at the man next to me smelling of cigarettes and wine.

I try to create him so that he is real.

But he is ficticius

If he is ficticius he means nothing

and I am lonely.

Forgetting curve

We forgot

the command of the language


the need to fight against prose with poetry

lyrical romantisism

how to sing in reallity and not in dreams

how to fly in dreams

how to jump into conclusions

feeling embarassed for a reason

being enthusiastic over nothing

planning the future past

who is that planet that looks like a star over there

our persona in the attic of lydgate lane where we jammed and recorded melodical (yes melodical) nonsense

palpable permutations of youth

We forgot and still have no answer
and cannot show what cannot be discovered
and when angry we can almost hear the clock ticking in the belly of a saltwater crock

Immigrant (riding the bus home)

There I am riding the bus from the centre of Athens

It is a lovely day

Summer was late this year.

I want so much to feel good.

This morning

three in number

stubbed a man over a camera he was carrying to film the birth of his child.

The media vultures splashed it on tv screens all over the country.

They said they were Arabs

They said they were north Africans

Now hooded kids with machetes chase whoever fits the colour

on the streets.

A Bangladeshi kid hiding in a bin was stabbed to death.

Most of the foreigners have no papers and they don’t go to hospital

They sleep on their wounds

in abandoned houses,

on floors crawling with roaches, mice, lice and all kinds of shit.

The locals call for more policing but not against the hoods.

Five blocks north the hooded lifestyle anarchist dwells in micropolitics

They want direct democracy, no governance and less policing.

Three coppers beat seven living shades of someone’s life.

Protesters retaliate breaking shop windows, burning police cars and vandalising banks.

The locals call for more policing against the hoods.

Fuck this, the world’s gone mad.

But some will say this is cliché

Some will say I say this to provoke,

some say that political poems are crap and mean nothing

well fuck that too.

I don’t give a flying monkey’s for what they think.

This is not about me.

I only write what I see trying to get home from the centre

I apologise if I cannot do it differently

Forgive my ineptness

I have no new method to present it.

This is about me.

Being a foreigner you are always a second class citizen.

Being unemployed at home you are a second class citizen

I am damned if I go. Damned if I stay.

Everybody around my age group wants to go.

I am broke,

she is pregnant.

We scrape a living,

she smiles,

she is hopeful.

I am thankful for that.

She asks me to join her on the balcony to watch the kids playing on the streets.

Silly me does not

I argue with someone on the net.

I stopped

I hacked the connection from the flat upstairs and the signal comes on and off.

It’s on.

I argue again about unimportant things

I am affected by that too

I don’t sleep well

One more thing to think about and prevent me from sleeping well

At least this one will go away soon

It is temporal.

Like a brothel, acting the thespians, touring the countryside.

The world calls for beautiful imagery,

disguise the suffering,

with something

like a pretty image in hell

dunno, maybe a girl’s laughter in absolute darkness.

That might do it.

I go back on the bus

Two guys in front of me talk about last century,

Argentina,

They saw the same thing happening before

on some place else,

we are repeating the same shit

all over the place

Such a human trait that is

I fall asleep on the bus guarding my empty wallet.

Then the swallows come

we chase them out

burn their nests

and wear their wings on our heads.

The price of it

The cost is running high for it

when you refuse to receive help

when you need it the most and it shows

When wool is a blessing

but all you got are bread and salt,

nylon bags

and the wet earth for a bed

When you refuse to brag about what you did not achieve

When everyone else brags of what was given to them,

acting like they are entitled to express an opinion loud,

with animated gestures,

and when they are wrong,

they are forgiven

Like it is ok.

Well I want some of that too.

I also want to stroll down the street,

without a care in the world

To sleep.

My eyelids bite my face hard and I cannot think straight.

I want to stop for a moment and let the warm sunlight hit my face.

It is like I float in it.

Like the kiss of a loved one.

I want to realise that it is spring time before it’s gone.

I missed it last year.

The swallows are only tolerated on pretense of spring,

Most don’t like them nesting under the balconies

They find their singing irritating

They swear when they clean their droppings,

break their nests,

complain that they make too much noise.

The swallows nesting are only tolerated on pretense of a luck charm

They are never accepted

To hell with it.

I would leave you for the sea and her incandescent diamonds

tanning my skin.

I would go there alone, to live like some hybrid animal

jerking my feet clumsily

holding my breath underwater

looking for meat.

I would have my body dressed in her humid salty breath,

my hands constantly smelling of fish guts,

like the air in port,

when the fishing boats come in.

You can just about make out their shape on the horizon,

surrounded by flocks of seagulls claiming their treats.

I would leave you for the sea

but it is with you I feel at home with.

Unique

It is a myth for a person.

Persons are not fingertips

Billions of us cannot be unique

have unique smiles,

gestures,

grimaces

emotions

Unique is something you say to get the girl

some love to hear that

others immediately sus you out.

We are all the same.

There is individual beauty.

Physical and cultural diversity

We are like glasses of different shape

and colour

with a chip here

and a crack there

but what we carry inside is what connects us.

Someone let the tap run and filled us with the same substance

Only the human spirit is unique and that is a collective

It is mathematically impossible to look for it in you by excluding the whole

Once appreciating that you may understand

why some love you,

hate you,

cannot stand you,

want to be with you

and vise versa.

Who is Alice ?

Alice is that little bitch
that dropped acid
and fell down the rabbit hole,
but that was many years ago.
Now she is old enough to fuck
and likes her men rough!
She wakes up in the morning feeling numb in places
and washes the dried blood off her lip
while two monkeys of the male species sleep in her bed.
She takes a smelly shit
gets up without wiping her ass
and walks in the kitchen
looking for a knife to slit her wrists.
Who is Alice?

Putana

a new life through death awaits!
in this pirate's den, where
I will enter

prostitute!!
you shout at me
your whore,
i am
a human being,
i was
please don't forget
when you see me like this,
strike me right there,
in my heart,
stick your sword,
Right here I want you to

And you became for money,
without pride
without ethos
without morals, passion, love, kindred
without... for money.
You say one thing and you think another,
you lie for money
you pretend for money

tarnished existence

never to enjoy without being seen to enjoy.

But you are the worst kind of whore
because you don't get fucked.

Mutiny

We sail through a sea of blind rage,

filling our sails with a wind of blind hate.

The crew is tired and the skipper disappoints them by reminding them to trim when they trim,

to prepare to go about when they prepare to go about.

Our morale sinks in the gutter as the spray from the sea soaks us,

Our companionship fades as we shiver in the cold wind.

There is a strong desire for mutiny on deck,

to hang the skipper on the mast with the Genoa line,

to fix him a cross with the spinnaker.

‘Skipper, the crew needs a good word, some good news, some humanity’

 And the wind grows stronger,

The waves like a wall approach from every side

surrounding the boat like a ring

for a moment all is quiet and we look at it before we start working the lines,

with our hearts overwhelmed by a sense of doom.

I do not want to drown in these waters.

I do not want to fill my lungs with rage or hate.

But my mind slipped overboard and drifts away,

my hands tie the knot,

my arms winch the struggling body.

And the drunk…

How eloquently put, how many beautiful words you know

Your words make no sense

And the drunk laughed and sung with a loud steady voice

Such is the truth,

one more wrinkle in the drunk’s face,

one more white hair added to many,

a burned eyelash by a cigarette lighter brought too close to the face by the unsteady hand.

And the kids played with hulas all morning, laughing and crying and laughing and crying looped under the watchful mind of their mothers.

Today there is no school,

no mentoring,

no advising,

no homework,

no lunchboxes,

no pencil sharpeners

no smell of coffee on the teacher’s breath. Just endless pairs of motherly eyes and minds watching…

This face is full of

clam cell lines,

beach shore lines,

traces of time shifting through the morning light that doesn’t touch the corner of the bar.

Such is the truth,

such is the logic lost in a sea of dejection,

glassy dreams,

hollow hope,

fake smiles,

nice words,

tidal waves of jokers beating you straight…and the kids played with hulas…

And the drunk made wrinkles and burned eyelashes.

C22

Your mouth is dry, your sweat evaporates and the rays of the sun pierce your skin
As you walk through this illusion of a forest the soil underneath your feet turns to sand
As you walk through this anhydrous place your eyes tell you that you are plagued with waterfalls
Your eyes tell you that you walk through a belligerent oasis
Your eyes tell you what your senses know it is not entirely true.

The vultures search for you
The vultures search for your children
The vultures search for your grandchild
They search

As you walk through this illusion of happiness
through this neon road
you can sense the darkness falling like a cloak
covering your eyes
so that you do not see the dagger of misapprehension.

I am your savior
Says the voice
I am the one to alleviate your thirst, to ease your pain from the knife in your ribs
I am the oasis in your desert

‘I am you savior, I can alleviate your thirst, heal your wounds’

The vultures’ death eager eyes search for you,
your children,
they eagerly search for your grandchild in the womb of the daughter
they eagerly search for the daughter in the womb of her mother

If only your pain never ends to feed their unending hunger.

And the deluded pilgrim asks when praying

For the pain to stop
For the vultures’ well being

In a paranoid dance macabre how can a god answer both?

(shh!
They search in the womb.)