by Christos Polydorou

2017-03-23 16.28.45 (1)
I am tired of not
running away.

I am tired of not
saying the same thing

differently each time.
I am tired of

literary expectations
upon me as a writer.

I am tired how being a writer
means being unable to be anything else.

I am tired of forms,
of structures,

of themes,
characters, plots,

beginnings, denouements,
linearity and non-linearity.

I am tired of calling myself
an artist and not proving it.

I am tired
of the word tired.

The nineteenth century
novel is so sick of me, Mr. Polydorou.

Jane Austen wouldn’t so much
as look me in the face, let alone

sow me a feminist button
on my apparently sexist shirt.

What have I
made new?

What on earth has
happened to my muse?

Greece used to mean peace, to cease,
to desist.

Look at me.
All my

are shaken to their cores

and their brassieres of gold
crumble in my hands like gold-dust.

I wish to return into the whirlwind
from whence I came.

Don’t you dare
say my name.

This should
not have happened.

None of this
should have been