the poetry that matters

Matina L. Stamatakis

Matina L. Stamatakis resides in a frightfully quiet village in upstate New York, where there is virtually no creative or artistic movement. To compensate for the lack of local creative outlets, Matina turns to the internet, where she manipulates and displays digital artwork, poetry, and the occasional noise track from her one-woman wrecking machine, Viscera[e]. Her most recent poetic/art works can be found in Intercapillary Space, La Petite Zine, Crash Test, The Starfish Journal, PFS Post and others. She is the author of ek-ae: a journey into ekphrastic aesthetics (Dusie, 2007), Harmonious Hogwash (VUGG, 2007) with Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Phos (Vugg, 2007), Sensoria (2008), a forthcoming chapbook, Metempsychose (Ypolita, 2008), and forthcoming noise album Tissue Arabesques (Artless Intent, 2008). She believes sleep is overrated.

153: Space-Writing



                   lightning spectra

X-Ray Venus


                             her hair  afire


in the dim


              furious sparks of inquietude







when the skin of her neck

meets a shiftless colossus



  I will beckon

 that which is impenetrable                "bone fortress"


                    "scapular armor"


in the deep ovals of her eyes

a blurred laser penI carve myself


                   into her flesh





                             a coarse scalpel




blade in the night



          sans titre







The Milky Way



                 woman, clever eunuch

          no bough nor withe where the heaviest

                    bird is sure

                             to feel safe


           no tender flute

          to wet the palate


                   leave the tongue inside the gimlet

                   leave the kaddish well-rehearsed

                       leave the spine of the night, an animal






     leave when milky, her breast in white fever,

     leave the pout of parched lips for not my son

      who cries with dry salt on his gums



           I will reserve the spurt

          for something

          more inhuman

         something permanent,


                               a constellation,

                            aligned & constant






                   & traverse through

                      Santiago de Compostela

                with his shrunken body on my back





                                       or for










                only to migrating birds

          for the woman who swears

           her body is a gaping pathway

                   to the stars


                    from which I will drink

                     without hesitation





Taxidermy Scars


to make pigeons of our fingers


end up with two beaks, squawk dissected
throats, whoops of incessant squawking

   [it doesn't help to recall
the moment of birds
      in pain
the house is done: we've built
our syringes out of frozen
      sprigs, synthetic
glossae, all slicked-on



          she claims
identity is found only inside
          the body
not outside: beaks
are superficial
parts, so are eyes. feet


I help myself into a bucket of scars,
a one-eyed jackal, arrangements
of skin whittled into trophy bone

glossed-over eyes bewilderment
settling on hollowed-out bodies in mist
she speaks to me like I'm a broken girl
with my hands greedily placed

                inside a cookie jar
           feeling for the emptiness
                  that encrusted

at the bottom long,
long ago





Change of Address


cleared away the TV voice
vacant ceiling save for cobweb


where boxes go in another room
   then mottled happiness
          lingers, every corner

tells a secret story of times
             spent sweeping
 sweat off of windowpanes

     sweating out the luxury

        of sweat

into a pillbox, seven cubicles:

sun nudes itself in front of window,
                 the nearest wall
a fixed door, black
boxes of glass eyes, wooden teeth
a sheath of egg white surrounds

like a sea-salted conch,
curio in morning

         [ latitude & longitude
                       against us ]




Self Portrait Without Eyebrows (for Kahlo)


      to reflect with mirrors turned upward
I've twice endured those Tepaneca silences

                   masks of lace

mask of birth

masks of counterfeit poseury
to spite the faces of saints

sometimes...    elastic torture machines
sometimes...       ripped toreador jackets
      oftentimes a refused prune,
the pus of excess vanity, hog flesh

    [my arms think of you in circles,
in cartographies of disaster, or the impaled,
                                   shrinking man]

these schizophrenic eyes dim each time
as voluminous shields of black, my lover's
                 child-like breasts

    stings of throaty gestures
from the depths of provoked




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