By Christos Floratos
Perhaps (unlike the earth) I am still.
A foyer of glass.
This God’s broken – he’s ill!
I should take a seat for this pen-ship will be a while.
Perhaps from this River Styx
Flows the River Nile.
But who am I to suggest such a flow,
A stream of vacant words is all I know,
For what else will stem from my mouth’s door.
Resistance etches past like a broken claw.
Poor devil. Afar, He is so wounded.
I am not a sinner. I exist in this garden, guarded.
Pen to paper, and where I sit, a lost Eve.
The red bite of delights was added to my fee.
I am eager, I am complex, I am strong, I am indifferent to Adam.
And I am in no mood to forget this ill requited spasm.
This is a hero’s (Ulysses) hall which hails from the great south.
I am its champion as established by word of mouth.
A step forward should jilt the glass,
And I will fall through, the death-bed of the middle class.
Out the window the evening tide calls,
When I see a bulbous light on the horizon, I stand tall.
But cocky sailors arrive from beyond the grave
They go home, back to being buried in a cave.
I wait, wait, wait. But wait, that’s a lie.
Under the hollow fogs that sprout I must confide,
I have no time for consistency in my crafts construction.
See me in my paper hut, all is friction.
This typewriter’s tent is only temporary
Though I experience such a parry
When the birds, crickets, cicadas and barks fill my ear.
I cannot always hold beauty out of fear.
I like glass for its not opaque.
Nothing to tempt, no crimson quake.
I must not damsel on the notepad foyer for routine grows dreary on me,
It bags and sags, ages like skin, and Goddamn my old works weren’t the key.
In my wake as I move forward, I produce black smog
I cannot wait for you, take my rib now and sit like a dog.
More ghosts undulate through this hall everyday
Scoured by a quickie exorcist who shall prey.
Below me, I see grass.
Above, I shall fast.
© Christos Floratos 2019