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and making magic happen. Celebrating language.

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The honey-jar wasp trap My father A perfect moment
Hey Dad can I borrow the car? Post-Market My grandmother's advice
To Dionysus The High-raised Flats The Cave
Off School Ancestors Useful
I am... That's Me This Scar
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The honey-jar wasp-trap

is set.

Sticky, syrupy, viscous liquid.
light refracting, ruby
allures them to,
such a sweet, death!

They buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz no more around our ears,
but hummmm in harmony in this
honey-jar, gyrating in a bizarre,
desirable, mass-suicide.

They stand on bodies,
pushing the weakest down
giving their last whirr whirling
to break out; in vain!

Listen to the drone
as they drown, drown, drown.

My father

My father would not do
any domestic chores;
could not cook
or do the dishes.

We run out of clean clothes;
we went out & bought some new.
We ran out of clean dishes;
we went out & ate at restaurants

that is until mother returned home
from a short stay at the hospital.

She wasnít quite sure
she should be happy
we could not cope
without her.

A perfect moment

Eyes level to the sea
Raindrops explode
Water-crowns splash
Faces red as apples
Bobbing disappear
Into the blue

The surface the sky
The sun water-paint

Which way is
The rain falling?

Hey Dad can I borrow the car?

And so what if Phaethon
stole his fatherís flaming chariot
and burned to the ground a few villages,
and froze to death one or two towns?
I would do the same given half the chance
to ride solo the chariot of the Sun,
even at my age!


Pomegranates, explode.
Figs flesh bursting.
Grapes bleeding.
Melons under the knife.
Apples chopped
and coconuts smashed.
Bananas skin peeled.
Garlic crushed.
Olives stoned.
Black-eyed beans.
Tomatoes squashed,
black and blue aubergines.
Potatoes dust themselves and rub
bruised courgettes
with dandelions.
Ladyfingers stroke
onions full of tears.
Thyme scented honey,
olive oil mixed with oregano:

My grandmotherís advice

She spits on her fingertips
that pull the wool
into a fine thread.
"Donít fret", she says
and spins the spindle with such a spin
I forget to cry,
"Just spit on it,
itís the best medicine for little scratches".

To Dionysus

Come bless me you Dionysus
Who inspired us Greeks
With your primitive festivities
And mysterious ceremonies
Unhindered by priesthood,
In ecstasy,
To cast off inhibitions and taboos
And to see in a brighter, new light
Man's relation to the world
And logically search for reason
And the trough.

The High-Raised Flats

They are knocking down the flats
by the coast road.
Ordinary lives,
still echoing around
on a blue wallpaper strip
of the childís bedroom,
on gaping kitchenís drawers,
muffled by the abandoned sofa.
From a broken window
on the ground floor
aided by draughts
through a missing door
a dirty red curtain is flapping
the cape of the matador
inciting the bulldozer;
it had enough of the intrusive
assumptions of passers-by.

The Cave

The cave is one of Argos's
most prominent features,
but for us it was
our play ground.
That was our castle.
There we fought
with stones,
wooden swords,
bows and arrows
and capsule pistols
Persians and Indians
cowboys and gangsters,
defending it to the death.
I would like to take you up there
and show you my name
proudly scratched on its walls,
marking out my territory,
but kids don't play there anymore,
and old Peter who was
using it as his lair
died some years ago,
so the undergrowth has overgrown.

You couldn't go anywhere near it
without scratching your legs
and arms as in a battle.
My daughter loved it;
when we went up there
a few years ago.
I didn't.

Off School

Punishing heat.
Bumpy, dusty dirt road
behind Prophetess Elias.
Skiving from school,
riding our bikes as fast as we could.

Youíve been there
many a time.
You could go even
with your eyes shut;
and no hands!
I shouldnít have followed in
that narrow ditch.
I didnít know it was
levelling out further along.
I shouldnít have tried to
turn out of it,
no, not at that speed,
and certainly not at that angle.

What a great job
your grand mother did:
Red iodine,
black head-scarf.
Patched me up
in no time.

Only this tiny scar
on my chest
reminds me of
the little gold cross
I lost that day:
my grandmotherís present.


As my scanner slashes with its sharp light
through thousands of faded shades of grey
it disturbs your peaceful rest.

And as I touch you with my cursor
restoring you to your original glory
its gentle strokes wake you up.

And as my printer bathes you
in millions of shades of bright colours
injecting life in your world you stir.

And suddenly you rear out of the paper
reclaiming your rightful place in our life.

And everybody's lips mention your name again.
"Look at my great-great-grandmother, Mary,
the spitting image of my son, Yanni,
her great-great-great-grandson.

"And this is my great-grandfather, John,
he has the eyes of my young daughter
his great-great-granddaughter, Nina.

Old photographs digitally re-mastered
putting us in touch with our past.


Today the wind was rattling my window
more than ever.

I wedged a piece of paper in the gap.
It was your letter.

I am...

I am but a wedge in a gap of space,
a tick in a lapse of time.
Dreams push my life back and forth,
as I get bigger with the sun going down
as I get smaller with the sun coming up.
To give up hope is fatal.
When you stop thinking of me
I am no longer.

That's Me

My body, a bed sheet,
Spread out on the bed of pleasure,
Stained from the excesses
Of my senses.

My soul, a tablecloth,
Spread out on the table of knowledge,
Stained from the banquets
Of my mind.

That's me, a frail curtain,
Hung out on the line of life
Weathered by time.

This Scar

This scar on my right arm
Is not from a fearsome battle,
Nor from a sporting accident,
Not even from racing on a circuit
Or from a marshal bout in a Dodjo.

This scar on my right arm
Is not from an infamous fight
With a drunken sod at a club,
Or from a fight with a hooligan
At a football match,
Or from a clash with a policeman.

This scar on my right arm is the result
Of a momentary lapse of concentration
While getting a pizza out of the oven.