Cycles

by Christos Polydorou

Entice me. Excite :

me. Elevate me
to sex-symbol
status. Make my
permanent address
your own personal
pedastal. Then push
me off a cliff.

Invite me to
your house to dinner. Plough
me with the most pricey
champagne, the best
oysters. Then poison
the sorbet.

Bring me in. Pull
me close. Make me
love you. Then skin
my face.

Distract me
from my work, the art
I love, the artists
whose time I gladly
give to, to see
only you, a
total scumbag, then
gouge my eyes out.

Vicious, careless
with solemn
hearts, healing a
thrust forth, healing a
procession forward, healing a coronation in arms, not a
slideback, a nebula
in reverse, a decline, a dying star.

You want me, you
ignore me, you won’t
leave me alone, you’re not
coming back.
Just because someone loves you does not excuse you to treat them like garbage.
Man is a colour. Woman
is a colour.

I was drawing circles. Now
I want to fix all the whirlpools, I
simply have to find
them first.
I am a poet.
I am a painter.
I paint like a poet writes.
And I write like a painter
paints.
I was tracing cycles. Now I
am looking for anything with
an edge.
Drinking:

the morning dew.

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