Yannis Livadas

My bones in the soup of my grave

I sit on every chair

because there is no proper place

for the art


in 2008, 2011

or 2012;

Water-drops of my drying shirt.

The chimes of St. Genevieve.

My ruthless head granted as a custodian by

the issues of spirit.

What an ordeal;

My bones in the soup

of the mud inside

my grave.


I am messing about with disaster as my code

and the evening star as my emblem.

My thought is a paper moon

and my place is empty:

I am sitting here and drink that rosy wine

the murky pain that throbs the vine

of my life.

I am by the side of the man who writes

I donít write

I appear through

arrays of expressions movements


No matter from where the poem will pass

I will grab it.

My observations

come and go;

nobody needs observations.

The clime suddenly

rejected us Ė

A minor blues.

I am by the side of the man who writes,

he has my hands.

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