Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
They call me demented—
a harbinger of fortune
who marks the sleepwalkers
when he confronts the early hours
and their iron horseshoes,
all the while incinerating—
through sheer malpractice—
the throngs of a city,
passive and worn to the bone,
letting out dismal,
dry,
indolent cries.
They call me demented—
one who dozes
in gas chambers
to avoid wearing
chastity belts
that tear apart the guides—
seams tested and strained
between the thighs.
They hail me as demented—
a label from upstart pimps
who stitch together
their own honorable patheticism,
using speech prostheses
dictated by a deck of cards—
cards that sever
the heads of rabbits
before they can even mate—
while the Cheshire Cat
vanishes with the air of a slum-dweller,
only to reappear
winning a game of poker
against solitary, asexual
migraines—
against every form of denial,
or sordid vigil,
worn thin by my own blindness.
