By Christos Floratos

I’ve discovered, Dear Reader,

That my words will pass you by, like air.

Critical responder that judge these words

For five cents – no less – soon to be expired the way of the pennies.

No tabloids here or there.

No mysterious untraceable existence in Greece,

No oven linked to finite eternity,

No hidden quill.

And no same road, no lover’s like a compass and no nameless sonnet.

For I have a name, Authenticity.

I present no flowers for they are for the meek.

For they are redundant, and I am no recessions subject.

I will not mitigate my words.

What meaning do you make of me?

What does my structure permeate?

My inflections are ghosts of Titans past.

I am the son of a metanarrative, the daughter of Abraham.

Fear constitutes my existence.

Remaining – somehow – identifiable.

Burglarised from the Library,

Buried in some 13 Digits,

Burnt as did Alexandria.

Keep my eyes unblurred from the rage of the rapids,

Fighting off the bottom feeders

So I can be read.


I do not regret my Autumn affair,

The cruelty of my voice; my eagerness to judge,

For soon I will be burnt; and pretty alike.

Dear reader, are you following me?

Tragic are the shackles of creative commons.

Of laws and licenses, patents on words as simple as delight.

Like an order abiding angel.

If you’re not happy with this realism

May I suggest a few pills of dull serotonin…

Cheek to cheek, kiss the air, decide the pleasure upon greeting.

In 100 years, you may use me… another whore of literature.

Smile as you do. Do the words reciprocate?

With something longing in you,

Buried with the daises under the foliage of auburn and umber.

And under the scrunched leaves lies the true answer, the critique.

Dear Reader, I am only as good as I am.

Homer and his Epics,

Plath and her tragedy,

Austen and her secrecy.

Donne and his Death.

I claim none of that.

I am the age of the Global.

Where Summer lasts all year-round,

And Winter is surely abound.

The only structure you should know,

That nothing new is ever the same, or ever fresh.

Culprit of thievery I am. This has been done before.


Maybe, reader, I will be dug up in 100 years,

– A lonely Golden Voyage –

Crunched up and new.

Author’s Comments:

What I try to evoke is the idea of what makes something Authentic. In some ways, the poem is talking about itself and I try personify it. How it will be remembered, how it lives in the shadows of titans past and how nothing can also be what it is, which is Authentic. It is as if the poem exists only out of fear of being unknown and worthless, referring to the “bottom feeders” and what it has done to stay afloat, referring to “Autumn Affair”.

“Fear Constitutes my Existence”

Stanza 1, Line 18

Throughout the poem, I refer to the audience as the ‘Dear Reader’. After treating the reader with curiosity and respect by calling them ‘Dear’, the poem drops this all together and by the last stanza calls them simply ‘reader’ in the last stanza uncaptalised, omitting the previous acknowledgement of individuality. The poem itself is at a discord with the reader, knowing it will be judged off more renowned works and tries to remix itself to remain authentic by labelling itself as the ‘”daughter of Abraham”. The biblical story actually involves the sons Cain and Abel.

“Dear Reader, I am only as good as I am.”

Stanza 1, Line 42

At the same time, the poem knows it is a product of time, relevance and is only a small glimpse into the world of not only myself, but society. I chose a free-verse style when writing to try encapsulate the post-modern direction of breaking structures. When I refer to the Lonely Golden Voyage, I am actually referring to to the Voyager Golden Record which is a disk sent into space in hopes that Alien life can see it and have a snapshot of humanity. It’s a critique on how we validate cultural aspects and how the poem knows that their is no certainty that it will be ever discovered. And if it does, the context will be missing but still such a fresh experience for whoever lays their eyes on it.

“Maybe, reader, I will be dug up in 100 years,”

Stanza 2, Line 1
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