All poems are literary pilgrimages, consisting not of frustrated
moments one experiences in real life, but moments of pure augmenting
ecstasy. I make the distinction between real life and the life evoked by writing,
because in real life is where you are bombarded with capitalist slogans like
‘be yourself to free yourself’ when in fact you are expected to be stripped of your identity.

It’s such a shame about real life, isn’t it? that it has to be the upside down world
that it is, that we all need to be controlled and led in order for societies
to exist. Meanwhile within us, an unruly primordial thing we carry forth
since the first stages of evolution of man flashes through, turning us into
a psychopath or an internationally acclaimed celebrity artist.

As for me, if you do want your writers vulnerable and spilling the tea,
I try like everybody else to strike a balance, between the surface, where
I exist in society, and in the depths, where I exist as an artist. It matters to me
that I have not (yet?) become acknowledged and celebrated, but still I
insist on doing the work, on honing my craft, on improving upon the gift rendered

because what would I do, despair? I love a full head of hair.
Enough about me, see, we did not get where we wanted to be.
Where we want to be is safe place, the love of face, beyond race,
in a state of perpetual grace, and unspooling lace, guiding us out of the labyrinth
after where (obligatorily) we have murdered the Minotaur. The Minotaur is a perhaps

perfect symbol
of ‘real life’, since
it only sees half
the picture. But
we require the rest

Where have you been, here, I’ve been here, the whole time

We have had this conversation before
I suppose we needed to have it again
I have missed you
I haven’t gone anywhere, I’ve just been quiet, busy
The world needed you
The whole world needed me
Isn’t it funny that the pandemic was called crown
Isn’t it strange a new disease brought me back
Isn’t it unusual that we stood on the precipice of a new tomorrow only to end up in a bitter yesterday
Isn’t it frank that you drank the holy water

Love is love, isn’t it?
What else
would love be…
Not love?

I’ve missed you
I’ve been here the whole sublime

perhaps we have a vision
of love
before we even fall in love
before we even choose
the one
we love

often why we choose
partners who are terrible for us
so that we may have
the dramatic downfall
and sit in our living rooms
with our chandeliers
in our laps

I for one
am baffled by how
many have found partners
whether it was because
they needed green cards
or because you needed a maid
or because your mother was
emotionally unavailable

like Mariah carey
I had a vision of love
and this love would be all consuming
like joan of arc being burnt
at the stake

I never found this love
from a person

but I did find it
from God

God who pulls me
God who protects me
God who burns me
God who reborns me
God who calls me
God who word of Gods me
God who empties me of my cat-fishing demons
God who fills me with light

I’ve missed you:
We rhyme

A very common dichotomy

I was born
on gold
being sold to the plastic

demons on a daily
basis. Spiritual
crisis was bound to follow. Needs

are mostly superficial, and monetary.
Ignorance is a vice of a virtue.
Every main entrance of every company

is decorated with bouquets of iniquity. What is
being done, to the
Goddess, Isis, sister of

Osiris? Aurum chipped,
on a daily basis,
with a pitchfork,

and being sold in shards
across the unanimous
races, their vacant faces:

You used to scare me,
and dare me

with nonsense.
What is my faith?
It is the certainty

that someone cares.
It is the conviction
that this someone/thing is

divine. It is what holds up
the two poles
in between which

the tightrope
I unprecariously balance on
I could

never see
at either
end. The world

snarls and barks
at you, attempting to push
you away. There is ‘nowhere to hide’

but there is no need to,
especially when the corresponding
cloisters are fragrant with frankincense

and alive with showering with
holy waterfalls, the necks of the believers
stretched up

quenching their
thirst. The only thing

better than money?

The conundrum, and the acknowledgement deep inside of us of the ability to undo the conundrum

The desire to put one’s head through a wall because the wall is an obstacle may be comical but deeplier it expresses the desire of the speaker to overcome that obstacle
We may never know what came first, & we cannot accept this
If a chicken is born of an egg, & an egg is born of a chicken, who was first
We cannot accept this or any other conundrum because we acknowledge inside of us the ability to undo the conundrum
It is also perhaps a conundrum how this perhaps godly ambition can find itself employed or not employed in the fragile body of a person sitting in a kitchen as the wind quietly shakes the branches of an olive tree planted – as far as the fragile person knows – 70 years ago

Every time I write about the olive tree in the garden, it has aged ten years
This is not a testimony about the carbon dating of the olive tree, if anything it is a testimony of how it feels between writing a text & then some time later another text about the olive tree in the garden
There is beauty in the garden, there is beauty in the tree, there is beauty in the swallows circling each other over the low terracotta tiles on the roof of the house in the garden, but there is also beauty in the thread you pass through the head of a needle to bring all these things together
You call yourself a writer but everything has already been written
all you are doing really is choosing specific objects, abstract or tangible & bracing them together: with your own sensibility & aestheticism
You remember especially & with vividness the incantatory statement of someone there is no need to bother saying Let the Lord use you
If that is the case then let the heavens open invisibly before a seeing eye & pass through my skull (like, yes, the head of a needle) all the way down to my toes, & I am fragiling
I want to write what no one has written before
Use words in a way that is new
This is the most important thing to me
Hit refresh

I am the aforementioned
Like everybody else
I am both fragile
& imbued with the

The conundrum I am trying to demystify is me
The humanity
& the divinity
& the threshold where they meet

With words used
In ways they have not been used

Make it new!

In and Out of Love

living in Cyprus is distracting
the island is so beautiful
and since the economic crash
in Greece
all these rampant descendants of Apollo
in their late twenties
early thirties

are moving here
for work
they and their v-shaped torsos
and their arms
that bulge
when they key in
the price of the freddo espresso
you ordered
on the till

I! begin to feel so dramatic
because I cannot get
what I ultimately think I want
one of these young demigods
in my arms
I have always felt – known! –
that I do not deserve love
let alone the love of someone
so very fresh out the gym

this is depressing, I’m so sorry
if I am making you feel uncomfortable
it is just
I am at a turn in my life when I want to write
with devastating sincerity
not to break
the heart of the reader
who I respect
and whose time
I do not wish to waste
write about
because beauty fades
and by writing about it
they hope to capture
beauty in their poetry
living beauty
not like those poor unfortunate
Damien hirst
pinned one by one, dead, in his ‘paintings’ of 1991
which he called In and out of love
imagine, instead, he had provided the viewer
with a butterfly garden
in case
the butterflies wish
to migrate across the world
the butterflies cannot help it
they are magnetized

I often imagine what it would be like
to be on the deck of a ship
and seeing millions of monarch
flying in a chaotic unison
across the reflective surface
of the atlantic

in this scenario
the young influencer Athenian barista
is the guy on the deck
and I am the shattered
the very shattered
kaleidoscope of butterflies
migrating to another continent
looking for love

NB In the Damien hirst exhibit I mention in the poem, more than nine thousand butterflies were killed, attracting the venom of insect lovers. Damien hirst seems to live for the sort of sensationalism that will cause backlash on his art. Damien hirst often includes the corpses of animals or insects in his art, most noticeably a cow, a horse, a shark et cetera. As much as I love art, I find him and his work reprehensible, and why he is one of the most highly paid living artist on the planet, shocking. I personally prefer Jeff Koons and Yayoi Kusama, but all art is subjective, and it is for each of us a matter of personal taste. As for the ‘rampant descendants of Apollo’: thank you for the Trojan Horse

NB The photograph is of a Jeff Koons public sculpture I photographed at the One World Trade Centre in Autumn, New York in 2013 and is called Balloon Flower (Red)

Ego is a prism, you need to step outside of it if you wish to experience the sacred

and inner worlds
meet at the courtesy of your lips
You inhale
and exhale
the synchronicity

So which is which
when the bare pomegranate tree
has bloomed leaves
it seems
and the swallows have returned?

Is it
early April
in both worlds? When

in the other
the drama of it
is much more
set against the

 of an epic production?

In outer world
you reach out your hand to the tree
to pick the pomegranate
and in the inner world
you walk away from the demon
you have just spent years
maybe even centuries
to destroy
a victory spread over
a multitude
of lives:

Beings of time
luminous and sacred
It takes time for the light to gather
In blue rooms you lather
your body
and subsequently
in white rooms
where you start
and complete
your compositions
bestowed to you
by the arrow holy
and from a great distance:

We need, we agree, a new word
for patience
Here it is: life

peach poetree

as when you
choose a peach
from a fruit bowl
and you lift it
to your teeth
but it slips
your hand
and goes
the floor:

poems tend to
tumble from me
as though I am not
a poet
but a peach tree:
I consult the scriptures

I consult the scriptures
I put up walls
Because I wish to keep
the blossoms safe

with each blessing
the erection
of an obstacle
never one
the other:

this is fate

watch my wind-whipped

against the panes
of glass
until they

and dozens
of peaches
maybe in the
From my twigs

you may collect
each one
or let them
in the sun

there will always be some
one –

there will always be some

Your body is a cage / your body is a launch pad: both

Into the dream
living dream
lucid dream
most common dream
in which

you are

you pass

traversing state
through state
obliterating boundaries. Your mother
would be proud of you

the way you cannot be
kept in a box
much like how you
are trapped in your own body

She might say, There is
an essence of spirit about
my child, unable to be
held down, in a world

it is so important
to the world
for people to be held
down, oppressed, and silenced

She would
point at you effortlessly balancing
tightropes between

and boundless spaces
illuminated from beneath and above
and she would say,
My child?