ditch,

the poetry that matters

Polymeris A Voglis

Polymeris A Voglis studied Mathematics in University of Athens. His articles and reviews have appeared in The Glasgow Review, Eviscerator Heaven and Counterexample Poetics. His poetry is due to appear in Eleutheria and in Danse Macabre.

Because we shall not pity the dead.

Because we shall not pity the dead,
their curdled eyes, their flesh of snow,
because in silence we shall scream
and the echo shall break our voice
(it was weak; but he is coming, unharmed.)

In this hollow valley between the four walls,
in those threshing floors we shall stand,
with empty hands, on our four feet,
to avoid bones thinking of bones,
to avoid the smell of forgotten stones
amidst the dark blue and the light night. Barking,

because words are not bricks to built ziggurats,
because poetry is the graveyard of graveyards
and poets are just poets,
struggling with the barnacles
for a laggard breath. Stolen.

When the last ribbon is torn apart,
how shall we march?
Where are we going to surrender
when even sleep has lost its house?
To set on fire what with our whispered flames?
 

 

men of Nothing

Leather-bound desert lands,
spare your pity and irony,
your skilful pundit lodes,
your vertebra steam-engine
that crawls en pantoufles,
your nonce pizzle-placebo,
take the cyanide,
fulgurite,
tablet of memory,
for your head rats.Now.

My mouth was never a womb
or my tongue a foetus,
blood shining
and cracking
the umbilical c(h)ord of carnage
of what we are
under the lucifugous
season of what we are not.

We are the maroons of the future past
child-man-statue-god-worm,
we are collapsing words
consuming stuffed roosters
with ripped silence. Mute.

We are men of nothing,
nothing but dust in bodkin’s eye
swept away by the worn hand of the sea,
nothing but breath crushing
upon the teeth
unable to whistle love,
nothing but ghosts upon a tapestry
of grease souls, stinking
under the burn of sun.

 
 
Autumn is a bomb without nucleus

Autumn is a bomb without nucleus.
It is the season that brings fire no more
where the land is not burning under the sun
and the sea is breaking the gorgons’ tails.
It is the season that kills the birds
(That is easy; they lay down to stretch their necks to see the winter coming and voila.)
It is the season that likes big words,
it is the voice in my head that (un)silently commands
nothing but a broken tree to move,
its branches to block the wind,
its roots to enthral the reversed spring
over the Elysian Fields of a non coming tomorrow.

Close the door, trap the autumn in the hills,
here the wills are blazing yet none blossoms,
the i’s on the razor wire were sliced to dots,
there is no tomorrow here,
there are no trees, no voices,
distilled eyes have the nights between us,
and my fingers scratch at the wall; soft it is like butter,
failing to start the dynamo of annihilation.

In the street the children are screaming;
they burn cobalt-blue ribbons,
aiming at each other’s heads with stones
under the muddy shower of a cold sun,
under a western sky that I do not understand.

My suitcase is hungry and smiling.
There is enough silence here. There are many words there.

 
 
Mephisto Beat

Poetoid typing machines of low altitudes and iconic brain sauces
over the cubic aconites of alleviation, trapped in urban attics,
stuffed with folklore dust of wannabe brightness among the rusty
puny Beats, jumping from boards into the lead floor sea and drawn
while the Bukowski fella watches them. The signs of blankets does
not belong to them, their voices are expired vindaloos spilled over
the articulated silk word curtains of a wealth self simulation,
their kitchenettes of dementia serve the cold parroting dishes
of speculated applause for the sitting crowd upon the diamond docks,
polishing with their tight arses the stones of poetry that cannot digest.
Sleep now my reader and fellow poet with the sweet pillow of concrete
spoken words arthritis massively followed by lyrical explosions of form.
And dream about the sublime methodological path for the unilateral
conquerors of Olympus.

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