On days as swaying, as these

by Christos Polydorou

2017-05-10 15.41.28
On blustery days like these
the wind shakes the birds out of the trees.
On days as swaying, as these. I’ve

got sore knees,
from backup dancing for so many superstars for forty years.
Forty years of loneliness, forty years of tears. Forty

years of photobombing
every celebrity rich ass fuck,
I could never be. Destiny

is a wind that breaks me
out from inside the branches I hide,
where I lie, lying, most seasons. I want to

keep my lips on God’s kiss,
but you keep coming in these narrow and wide open rooms,
swinging your big long dick, like an elephant tusk.  You could

be a gentleman,
and you could take me out dancing instead,
leaping off window-sills, waltzing across the clouds. Or you

could be a jerk.
Evoking my contempt and my lust.
Funny how that works. In the

interval between romance and vulgarity,
a masterpiece of lover anonymity,
two men exchange essences, and never see each

other again. Now I am alone,
not trembling to the bone,
not bored, actually, though it is a

Monday. All my bruises
are in place, but they are small,
I take care

of myself. I am in what’s left of my room,
in an house exploded in world war two,
watching, from my fourth floor window,

all manner of birds,
soaring, in the wind. It makes me so happy
to just look at them, them and I, splitting infinity and infinitives.

On blustery days like these
the wind shakes the birds out of the trees.
On days as swaying, and wise, as these.
2017-05-10 16.27.49

 

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