A night from my past

September 4, 2012 at 5:11 pm (Lyrical)

I abhor you I condemn you ‘cos this pain
will never end
You got away without a scratch and now you’re walking
on a lucky path
I have to laugh
but you’d better watch
your back

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The last drop

September 1, 2011 at 12:21 am (Lyrical, Needs)

Το δωμάτιο ήταν σκοτεινό, υγρό και σιωπηλό. Οι τοίχοι πάλλονταν από την αποπνικτική Αυγουστιάτικη ζέστη, και ο χρόνος έμοιαζε να αναβλύζει και να κυλάει νωθρά στους τοίχους. Παρά την σιωπή και τη φαινομενική ακινησία, η ένταση ήταν απτή, και η ατμόσφαιρα έτοιμη να εκραγεί, όπως ο νεαρός αμαθής κρατά την ανάσα του πριν το πρώτο του φιλί. Ο αέρας, πηχτός και θαμπός, είχε μυρωδιά από ροδάκινο, και οι λιγοστές ηλιαχτίδες που ξέφευγαν ανάμεσα από τις γρίλιες, ζωγράφιζαν με το καυτό τους άγγιγμα, πύρινες πορείες για ανεξερεύνητα μονοπάτια στο σώμα της.

Γονατιστή πάνω στα υπόλευκα σεντόνια, νωπά με ιδρώτα και χυμούς της ζωής, η Ν. ήταν ακίνητη, αμίλητη, με το βλέμμα της καρφωμένο στο στρώμα και τα χείλη της σε μια βουβή παράκληση. Διάπλατα ανοιχτά και τεντωμένα πάνω από το σκυφτό της κεφάλι, τα χέρια της ήταν δεμένα με λευκό σατέν στον ουρανό του κρεβατιού. Τα μαλλιά της, ανακατεμένα και υγρά, μπροστά της, κολλούσαν στο μέτωπο και το σώμα της, κρύβοντας την ανάγκη που ξέφευγε από τα σμαραγδί της μάτια. Η ανάσα της ήταν πειθαρχημένη, αργή και βαθειά, και μόνο το ανεπαίσθητο τρέμουλο στα γόνατά της πρόδιδε ότι είναι ακόμα ζωντανή.

Μια γεμάτη σταγόνα ιδρώτα ξετρύπωνε που και που από τον μελαχρινό χείμαρρο των μαλλιών της, μένοντας στο λαιμό της μόνο ώσπου ένα απαλό τρεμούλιασμα από το σώμα της να την ωθήσει να κυλήσει. Όπως ξεκινά το μακρύ της ταξίδι, εξερευνώντας την σπονδυλική της στήλη της Ν., περνώντας πάνω από γρατζουνιές και δίπλα από δαγκωνιές που διακοσμούσαν το κατάλευκό της δέρμα, ένα πνιχτό βογγητό ξέφυγε από τα κατακόκκινα, σχεδόν ματωμένα χείλη της κοπέλας, μάρτυρες της αδυναμίας της να το πνίξει ξανά και ξανά. Η Ν. κράτησε την ανάσα της, η καρδιά της χτυπούσε πλέον ηχηρά στο σφριγηλό της στήθος, αλλά απτόητη η σταγόνα συνέχισε την μαρτυρική κάθοδο στην καμπύλη της μέσης της, κερδίζοντας σε όγκο καθώς πότισε το λουλουδένιο της τατουάζ, πρωτού χαθεί ανάμεσα στα ροδισμένα της μάγουλα.

Όμως εκεί κατοικούσε μια διψασμένη γλώσσα, ενεδρεύοντας στα βάθη ανάμεσα στα χείλη της, χρονοτριβόντας ανέμελα στην αρμυρή υγρασία. Ξυπνημένη γλυκά από τον αναστεναγμό, βγήκε από τη ζεστή, υγρή σπηλιά της να πιάσει τη σταγόνα με την άκρη της, και να τη σύρει πάνω στα τα πρησμένα χείλη, σε μια ερεθισμένη κλειτορίδα. Πεινασμένα δόντια έκλεισαν γύρω από το παλλόμενο κομμάτι σάρκας, και η Ν. έσφιξε τις παλάμες της γύρω από τα τεντωμένα της δεσμά, προσπαθώντας μάταια να κρατηθεί. Και καθώς η ανηλεής γλώσσα άπλωσε μεθοδικά τη σταγόνα πάνω του, μια πνιχτή κραυγή έσπασε την εκκωφαντική ησυχία.

Λες και ήχησε καμπάνα σινιάλου, η γλώσσα γλύστρησε μπροστά και τα δόντια έσφιξαν τον κλοιό τους, κάνοντας το κεφάλι της Ν. να τιναχτεί, και τα μαλλιά της να μαστιγώσουν την κυρτή της πλάτη. Δάχτυλα που ελλόχευαν πίσω της χύμηξαν στο σώμα της, εξερευνώντας το με πείσμα και χωρίς αιδώ, τρυπώνοντας σε κρυφές πτυχές και μπήγωντας τα νύχια τους σε κάθε περιοχή που κατακτούσαν. Σαν κύμα που σκάει στην ακροθαλασσιά, η γλώσσα έγλυφε συνεχώς και πιο έντονα, γράφοντας το όνομά της ξανά και ξανά στο ερεθισμένο δέρμα. Ανίκανοι πλέον να πνιγούν, ικετευτικοί αναστεναγμοί και κραυγές λύτρωσης γέμισαν το δωμάτιο, αντηχώντας για ώρα στο τελευταίο ηλιοβασίλεμα του καλοκαιριού, μέχρι η γλώσσα να νιώσει τις δονήσεις να υποχωρούν, και το τελευταίο τρέμουλο να ξεμακραίνει στο χρόνο. Αδύναμη και παραδομένη, η Ν. ένιωσε ένα πονηρό χαμόγελο να σχηματίζεται ανάμεσα στα πόδια της, και ένα δάκρυ κύλησε στα μάγουλά της. Τα δάχτυλά της χαλάρωσαν, έγειρε το κεφάλι της μπροστά ξανά, τα δόντια της ελευθέρωσαν τα ματωμένα της χείλη, και η ανάσα της επέστρεψε νικημένη στον σιωπηλό, πειθήνιο ρυθμό της.

Και μόνο τότε η γλώσσα, χορτασμένη, ικανοποιημένη, με μια τελευταία αργή κίνηση πιέζοντας από τη σχισμή ανάμεσα στα μάγουλά της ως την ηβική γραμμή, υποχώρησε ξανά μέσα της, παραμονεύοντας μέχρι την επόμενη σταγόνα.

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Ήταν μια φορά ένα κάποτε, που δεν έγινε ποτέ

June 29, 2011 at 2:42 am (Irrational, Lyrical)

Κάποτε ήταν μια νότα.
Ήταν μείζονα, μα δε τη ζωγράφισε ποτέ κανείς.

Στην ηχό της ακουγόταν κόκκινο, αλλά με άρωμα από γιασεμί.
Η περηφάνειά της επέβαλε γόβα στιλέτο, και βηματισμό με στόμφο.
Μπαρόκ στακάτο, κουτσό στο πεζοδρόμιο με τις γόπες,
αλλά δεν τόλμησε ποτέ ούτε ένα βήμα.

Το μπαλκόνι της μύριζε πάντα Θεό και ανυπομονησία.
Πότιζε ξυπόλητη τα γεράνια της με φλόγες,
και τα τύλιγε με χρυσό χρόνο για να μην τα κάψει ο χιονιάς.
Το χώμα ανάμεσα στα δάχτυλά της ήταν πεντανόστιμο πασπαλισμένο σε παγωτό βανίλια.

Θα μπορούσε κάποτε να ξεθάψει το κλειδί της και να πετάξει μακρυά.
Μα σήμερα είναι ήδη adagio,
και μάλλον δε θα το μάθουμε ποτέ.

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Προφητεία

June 6, 2011 at 5:08 pm (Lyrical, Someone else's story)

“Μια μέρα κάποιος θα βρει ένα ξέφτι στον ουρανό

θα το τραβήξει και θα πέσουν όλα τα ποδήλατα των αγγέλων

όλα

το εννοώ”

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13

June 5, 2011 at 1:53 am (Irrational)

I saw it last under a wave, it smiled a toothless smile and crashed in a hollow sky.
Witches burn it for luck, and its smoke smells of pink roses.
It could have a name, but no one cared to call it once.
Children can see it through the dark, but light draws it closer.

It is scary like laughter in the silence, and burns the skin like ice.
It glides like summer raindrops on dusty glass, and stains like hot wax on a nail-scratched arched back.
If it were a color, it would be distorted red under your eyelids after staring at the sun.
If it were a sound, it wouldn’t.
It could be anywhere, but only snails can find it after a thunderstorm.

I laughed at it once, and it stole my dreaming breaths to trade for a cordless guitar.
I thought I found it today, but I wasn’t looking for it.
I still need it but I don’t want it now.
Break it out of me.

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One Day I Will

May 8, 2011 at 7:45 pm (Lists, Needs)

  • Find a unique name for every color in my bedroom.
  • Write lines of lyrics on a hundred pink post-its, and stick them on the front doors of those I miss.
  • Admit that the only thing making me a bearable poet/writer is my vivid imagination and my powerful imagery.
  • Sing in an empty theater with only the raindrops to accompany me.
  • Hold you close to me and bury my face on your shoulder, and feel your heart beating in my chest.
  • Stare at the sun.
  • Paint a self-portrait and use the red of a cherry for the shade of my lips.
  • Drive fast after a heavy rain and not stop until I find where the rainbow ends.
  • Find someone who won’t laugh at me when I tell them fear makes me laugh, music makes me cry, and Claire Dane’s crying makes me want to shoot someone.
  • Clarify my position and remind some people they’re too pitiful for me to waste such a powerful emotion as hatred on them.
  • Eat fried chicken in Kentucky, bed a Bill in Buffalo, enjoy a torpedo in Nevada, and walk around in my Ruby Slippers in Kansas.
  • Print 1000 fliers with messages of love and hope, and distribute them in downtown Athens, urging people to pass them on to someone in need.
  • Make you cum with just my eyes.
  • Sleep with my teddy bear again… which incidentally is a duck!
  • Play dress-up like I’m 8 again, wearing a sheet, my mom’s pearls and a paper tiara, and trot around to the sound of Jean Michel Jarre’s Equinoxe.
  • Learn a really exotic foreign language, one that is almost wiped out. It will be like preserving a dying piece of the world.
  • Set the bunny free in the wilderness to explore nature, and wait to see if it will come back to me.
  • Fly away, leave all this to yesterday.
  • Play Bach’s Prelude in C major on an abandoned piano, where dust and memories will dance around in the rhythm of my breath.
  • Stand on a balcony in the mountains, wrapped in an orange blanket, and watch the smoke of my cigarette as it flirts with the predawn fog.
  • Dance around like nobody’s watching, even though I secretly want them to.
  • Convince myself I’m worth all this, and more.
  • See your reflection behind me on the bathroom mirror, feel your fingers on my back and your kisses in my neck, turn around and you will be there.
  • Take off in the middle of the night for an unknown mountain destination, relying only on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter.
  • Ask for forgiveness. And grant it.

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Wrote a Letter for You. To Myself…

April 25, 2010 at 8:20 pm (Irrational, Needs)

People never seize to amaze me. We are a peculiar breed. We can commit the most brutal monstrosities against our own kind, yet we get teary eyed with a sunrise, or a great tune. I love the world, because it is beautiful and so full of mysteries, never running out of ways to excite me and make me want to live more, better, to the fullest. I love people because they push me to my limit and show me that I’m a creature of nature, honest and pure, and strive to become the ultimate version of myself. I love the earth, and the sky, the mountain tops and the ocean floor. I love the moonlight caressing the leaves of a sunflower, and the sun rays playing on the feathers of a nightingale. I love mankind because we are capable of greatness, and that potential is enough to comfort me whenever I come face to face with what hideousness we treat ourselves and our surroundings. I love my virtues because they make me feel worthy of that Greatness, and my flaws because they show me the way to reach it. I love music because it exalts my soul and brings me one step closer to purity. I love reaching my limits because it is the only way to mark where I haven’t been yet and set new goals. I love being emotional and crying when I see a touching movie, a person in need of love, a white horse running in a field with its mane waving proudly against the wind, tears falling down friends’ eyes after a lame inside joke, a soul-piercing tune in a song long forgotten, a line in a poem I keep always messing up, a baby holding its mother’s finger with its palm, grasping it so tight as if he is holding in his hand the whole world, because Mother is the name for God on the lips of a child.

I don’t know why I am writing all this. I feel so in need of letting myself out, being who I want to be and not who I am dictated to act like. I want to be me, the girl with the best flavored lollipops, the girl with the squeaky bat hair clippers, the girl that keeps old sweaters from elementary school torn at the elbows because they smell like mommy and wooden pencils, the girl who doesn’t understand she’s a woman now, the girl that always forgives first and forgets last, the girl who smells of fig and cedar and draws on her cards with her eye pencils and nail polishes, the girl who is not afraid to break a mirror and risk 7 years of bad luck to create a mosaic of reflections for her depressed friend, the girl who is proud of her choices and confronts her shortcomings with a wink and a smile, the girl who collects recipes for her beloved ones, the girl with the black circles under her eyes because she never sleeps before filling her soul with the essence of the sunrise, the girl who dreams of being a fairy dressed in a purple little dress with green boots and butterfly wings and runs over the surface of enamel waters looking for the guardian of the lake, the girl who cries at the magnificence of the world because she feels lucky enough to be a part of it, even an observer.

I think about you often. I think of how I fear what you’ve been through in your life has shaped how you are inside, how I hate myself for analyzing you without my will in my head and how I can’t sleep at night because of the pain that I am afraid you feel, how I dread what you might become, or could have already been, and how that scares me, not for me, but for you, for you’d be missing on the true beauties of the world. I am so scared that you have been pressured to turn into a faceless, unemotional person, unable to express anything resembling a weakness, anything personal that might be considered strange or anything possibly interpreted as a need, because you are so used to everyone counting on you that you think you will be disappointing them and yourself by being human, by being you. So you don’t risk any part of you, not your feelings, your ideas, your beliefs, your behavior, anything, for anyone, not anymore. It makes me want to hug your neck and fill you with kisses every time I think that you don’t let any emotion show out of fear and anger of how it might be interpreted and used against you later, to hurt you either on purpose or due to circumstances, yet you always want others to feel comfortable around you and open up to you, so you can fool yourself into thinking this is equal involvement, this is trusting and caring. You don’t admit to making mistakes because you don’t know how others will react to that and you always put the worst with your mind. Remorse is a pathetic emotion, and you turn your worry and sadness into active emotions, into stubbornness, anger, arrogance or just coldness. You may be proud for how you’ve bounced back from all the hell you’ve been through, but the cold, faceless, logical, judgmental part of you is embarrassed, and you are ashamed and angry for that embarrassment. You hate it when people whine and lay their burdens on you, but you prefer it so you can justify to yourself that you can’t open up to them since they have already so much on their mind, and use it as a form of reason for them to accept whenever you mess up. I know this might come as a shock to you, but I never thought of you as a super human with the solution to everything. I always considered you more in need of support, care and love than anyone else I’ve ever met, and I am always willing to offer all that to you from my heart, not because you’re weak, but because you’ve gotten so used to projecting an image that you think others expect and like about you, that you actually forgot what it feels to accept someone the way they are. It stresses you greatly that you need to find solutions for everyone else’s problems while yours still remain stuck, but gives you the false impression that you’re actually dealing with it and moving forward while deep down you know it’s just a diversion. But my greatest fear is that you have gotten used to it, that at some level you are pleased with it, that it has sucked you in too deep now to see the new morning light that I want to show you. My greatest pain is not that you can’t cry, but that you don’t want to cry, because you hate people that cry, you hate the weakness they show and you swore to yourself you’ll never be in such a position again, out of fear and anger that someone else might think you weak and resent you. And because in the past the people you opened up to and trusted were unworthy of your beauty and love, you have subconsciously decided everyone will treat you the same, and no one that could possibly stand with you will do it for YOU but for what you show them you are, your cave is again there to arrogantly defend its reason of existence and protect you from the pain. I fear all this, and I want to tell you but I can’t because I am worried about your reaction. I don’t want to psychoanalyze you, or insult you, or even point out anything to you. I don’t even know if what I just wrote is right or wrong. I am sorry if I overstepped my boundaries, but I truly am not, because even if none of this actually is true, it did me good to write it and get it all out of my system. Hopefully you will understand that I did it because I love you, and not because I get any twisted pleasure from putting people face to face with their own personal truth. But mostly I did it to let you know that I am here, and I am here for YOU. And you, like me, like everything, will be ok.

There is so much beauty in the world. So much. There’s so much to experience with every part of your body, so much you can hear, and see, and taste, and smell and touch with the tips of your fingers. And we people only get a glimpse of that beauty, only a faint touch with just our fingertips, as the true secrets of the power of the waterfall, the awe for a rainbow and the resilience of a mountain slip through our fingers. It is a beautiful place, the world. I want to see it, to suck all I can inside me, to let it make me feel truly alive, and strong, and happy. I want to embrace all that I have been through so far, because they all made me into me and, regardless of good of bad, I’m all I’ve got. And You, just like everybody else in the universe, deserve your love, and I am here to enjoy the smiles on your face and the way your eyelashes will cast a shadow on your cheeks on a hot midsummer afternoon. I wish I could make you believe. I wish I could make you see it like I do. I wish I could make you stand up with your hands spread wide and accept all the pain the world will throw at you, because the few scraps of Love and Beauty that slip through are worth the salt of your tears. I wish I could convince you it is all worth it, because Judas’ kiss is the sweetest you’ll ever experience. I wish I could hold you close and feel your heart in my chest, feel your breath in my hair, feel your essence around me and savor every little part of you, every smell or little gasp, because you will never be more perfect to me than at that moment when I will Recognize You. So much beauty. Don’t be afraid to close your eyes because of what you might dream, because there will always be a way to turn the best dreams into reality. And don’t be afraid to open them again in case you get blind sighted by the morning light. Even nightmares are dreams, and their beauty lies in the moment you wake up and realize it was only just a dream.

I love you.

Forget your fears.

Just hold my hand.

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Breathe

November 16, 2009 at 1:55 am (Uncategorized)

Dance ’till you can’t.

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Crazy how it feels tonight…

March 16, 2009 at 11:14 pm (Irrational, Needs)

I know it is difficult today. It all just feels wrong and out of place. But I’m here, and I will never leave. I am here and I never forget what makes me smile, your smile. I don’t give up, because there’s no color in the world other than your eyes. You don’t expect me to, but I pay attention to how your eyelashes cast a shadow on your rosy cheeks in the afternoon sun. Paris, Venice, San Francisco… I want a cardboard box and water paint and your arms around me.

We will have our differences, we will disagree and fight and take time off each other, and it will hurt and sting us, just like too much sun can blind your eyes. We’ll seek the shadow of a fast crossing cloud through the clearest blue sky, just to cool our shoulders and shake off the dead skin from our sunburned bodies.

And then we’ll just re-emerge in the shine, burn with passion and melt together, like ancient roman candles. And the trails of our smoke will dance eternally towards the cloudy skies.

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Rebellion in Dreamland

January 30, 2009 at 2:29 pm (Irrational, Needs)

Tolerance is not a virtue. It is the curse of the world. It turns you into a victim, an empty skin coat of a self your morals hoped you could become but your instincts urge your nails to dig deep, even in your own skin, to keep you away from. Smiling, feeling happy, being conscious of other people’s emotions and sharing yours, forgiving and accepting is a process, a struggle, not the natural way of things. Rebel, lash out, scream until your voice breaks, fight the straight-jacket you put on to cover past scars until your body eats itself, break your nails and your teeth scraping your own message on the walls of your tiny white cell. It’s all you’ve got, and it would be a shame to let others decorate your walls with their own personal madness. Wear your choices in pride.

Happiness is never easy, nor desired. It is the pain and anguish that make us who we are, that shape our dreams and desires, and as ironic as it may seem, achieving happiness is hardly ever the ultimate goal. Merely surviving with a decent, agreeable life becomes a more and more tangible dream every day that passes by and, instead of aiming for stars that usually aren’t there or we made up to light our darkest nights and clouds that fill the empty black sky with desirable shapes and a feeling of constant progression, we compromise with a streetlight and a cigarette smoke ring. And it is ok.

We all want to become the person who looks back at us through the display window at the mall instead of the freak that stares back at us through the broken mirror glass in the bathroom. You can’t see anything beyond your own stare at a mirror, and as much as you try, you can only see what’s behind you that got you there. There’s no see-through comforting world surrounding your slightly elongated reflection for you to rest your eyes on when your own gaze becomes unbearable, no pretty surroundings to make your world look more pleasant or promising. Mirror images bring you face to face with a truth you never really intended to hide but, once out, you can’t suffer its brutality and break yourself to push it back in through the cracks of an “everything will be ok” smile. Display windows are good for the soul.

I refuse.

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