Franz Kafka was such a striking looking person. And a completely unique author. I cannot wait to work with him.
I write a letter to Franz Kafka. I address it to hell, as a joke, although we both know that having done what he has done has shown us hell, as a path to heaven, and not the other way around. Franz Kafka agrees to work with me, but just for an hour. We can write something together, brief, but, he promises, it will be substantial.
Getting what you wish for
What on earth do I serve Franz Kafka?
I decide to serve Franz Kafka, nothing German, nothing Jewish, no, I decide to serve him treats from my own country, Cyprus. This decision works. Franz Kafka is impressed with my copper jizve, on which I prepare Turkish coffee, he is pleased with the slices of halloumi I serve with toothpicks, with black olives, and slices of heritage tomatoes. He swoons in a reserved way, as I serve him bowls of home made tahini sauce, and taramasalata, and tzatziki, served with hot pitta bread, and he politely yet absolutely devours all the little bowls of butter beans, pork and lamb souvlaki, that I grilled, the salad with feta that I chopped up, not to mention the honey drizzled baklava, which causes him to shake his head in amusement. I smile, so proud of my own heritage, so in love with my own island, it does not matter that I do not live there anymore, it is in me, and I take it everywhere with me, this playfulness, this jostling, this borderline brusqueness, that is so well intended, it could not be anything but brusqueness, what it means, to me, Christos, to be a Greek-Cypriot, to have to explain to people where Cyprus is, on a daily basis, I don’t mind, geography was not one of my strongest points, anyway, my notion of time and space is governed by things that are not always visible. Thank you for coming, Franz Kafka. Thank you for enjoying all of my food. It means the world to me to have watched you eat, and later, when you are gone, I will clean up after you, and I will cry, I am not ashamed to say it, but I will cry, at the impenetrability of the truth that I will never get to see you again.
What actually happened
Franz Kafka and I met at a mid-point between where he is and where I am. This occurs when a reader reads a book by an author, as I was reading The Burrow, a collection of short stories, by Franz Kafka, on the bus home tonight. An unquantifiable, unclassifiable talent, a genius beyond genius, in a room of his own.
Let’s visit him, and others, more often.
and even there
it is semi-concealed,
so in our hearts,
in our art,
we could be truer
in the same way,
under layers and layers
You love me
more like this,
You like to see
are so realistic,
even when there
are no shapes.
in my mind.
It is late,
and my one roommate,
isn’t shouting to his phone.
in my mind,
I have kept myself
away from pollutions,
as much as possible,
as a way to ready myself,
for the part I can understand,
the decorative bit.
When a great big hand
reaches down from the sky
and puts cherries
in my mind, as I say,
in my mind.
are the sands of time
turned to confetti!
Stack on the
facts, like plates
on a waiter.
Even the ones with
cracks, especially those
you thought you’d
save for later.
we got through another winter.
Daffodils, narcissi, but now the
roses of May, vivid, vibrant, vital.
Red reaches us
in flights across gardens and rooftops.
Every remaining colour and feather returned back to its
Birds on a wing, or a song gods sing, for the
comes as no surprise, to realise, what was between the lines.
it not been revealed,
without the pretense
of extracting its central enigma?
myself, for the correct question.
How beautiful you look tonight,
have I failed again to mention?
I had to say something, anything,
to break the tension.
You are reaching me,
but you seem to be in another dimension.
This can’t be seen, but exists,
and is apprehended beyond my comprehension.
To not comprehend, but to lose myself in it,
will be the only course for my reinvention.
To all those clearly unable to deal with the horror in their hearts, and who find it necessary to admonish themselves through the burnings of the lives of the innocent, you will not be successful, you will not win forever, and you will never be forgiven.
So interesting, quite
humorous. We could
be fast friends. But I like
the scent of it more.
A friendship, a puddle, a man in heat.
What was needed?
It was replaced.
Where are refunds
available? I’d like the
forty years of my life
back, I’d like to start
over, go back, back in time,
to where it all started
and address the universe
why the same final scene
of me in a room with nothing,
why are the ones I love bleeding
through my fingers,
what do I do when everything
has been done? Laundry
I don’t want to look back,
but you keep turning my head.
I want to go forward,
but I keep tripping.
I can only be half
The prunes will
grow on the trees.
Let’s be there
to catch them.
you take home to your mother. Other
girls you keep them away from your mother,
since they seem like they can turn her
into a lesbian lady. Cassandra, a friend of mine,
has short blonde hair,
some guy is missing her.
She has an androgynous charm.
That works on men who keep at arm
‘s length. What they really felt.
That day in their early adolescence.
She can go anywhere she wants.
But she stays perfectly still.
And calls the world to wait for her.
Not the opposite.
She had travelled, on foot, for long,
to come to this conclusion,
that she must understand that she must remain close
to the source of love’s profusion,
rather than totally try to run away
not only because there is no where to run to
but because legs get tired
and there is not always someone around
to massage your feet. It is of
much mystique, and a little bit too random,
how Cassandra, so young, survives in an exorbitant
like London, without ever asking
her family for cash.
It is because she is more than just a girl.
She is also a cigarette.
That a god keeps in his hidden stash.
Don’t you worry about Cassandra.
Her name ends in αντρα,
The Greek word for man.