by Christos Polydorou


I want.
What is it?
I want what I want.
You will require nothing else, nor accept it, for that matter.
I do not generate my wants, they are generated externally.
From the outside in, as though you are a strait, like the Bosporus.
I want to look at beauty for more time in my hands than is bearable to me.
Beauty removes layers each layer of skin like you are a Platonic banana, or the one Andy Warhol painted for Velvet Underground.
It is like a sun for our inner worlds.
You get too close like Icarus and your wings start to melt.
I want to be emasculated by beauty. I am not afraid of being emasculated. I am used to it, you see, I walked into every room with my arms wide open, so excited, enthusiastic, and eager, only to be met with walls held up by confused persons, some of whom with which I shared blood.
You live what you grew up with.
I wanted to run away from fathers and patriarchal homes and modes of marrying and lying on my back for nine months while I wait for a child to come out of my hitched legs, my torn cunt.
Come back.
Tradition, social standing, congenialities, conviviality, being genial, lively, affable, cheerful and enjoyable with anyone wishing to change me into themselves.
Did you feel their fingers at any point?
Of course I did. Their moulding hands.
I felt them too.
Who are you.
He who answers.
Is this a form of prayer?
It is definitely a spiritual activity but whether or not it is prayer depends on your humility.
Do I have to beg to get what I want?
The fallen are rewarded.
With the fall? I wish to talk about this, a lot, and very loudly.
Yes, we must.
But first you must tell me what beauty is.