Modern geisha (final draft)

by Christos Polydorou

2017-04-06 12.48.23
He was a husband.
A human race in descent.
In an empty man.

He effected me.
On both knees.
A day which kept happening.

He had an infinitesimal heart.
But he was smart.
He even harboured appreciation for the performing arts.

Excuse me?
My body is on fire.
If I begin to ooze like a volcano

erupting, will you love me less,
or more? Toad on a water lily.
Tea ceremonies. Poetry. Literature.

(I said, to which he said)

Read to me?
Sing me to sleep.
I am feeling unwell. Hold me?

Miso soup.
He preferred it at a lukewarm temperature.
My kisses he liked ice cold.

Unlike a theory, a husband.
No shoes on the carpets.
A beauty in a man of sombre sobriety.

Unlike a husband, an expectation.
Great expectations,
too linger on the eastern front of abstinence.

Meanwhile Love the hunter surrounds us,
inserts its hunt
into our six senses.

Meanwhile I am separating here and now
from the other two – or is it three? –
grammatical tenses.
2017-04-06 12.49.06

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