Bad red blue, blue Poetry

&
other
compulsory unpaid labors

Mikhail Mavrotheris

Copyright 2014 by Michalis Mavrotheris

All rights reserved.
Cover design by Michalis Mavrotheris
Book design by Michalis Mavrotheris
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
electronic or mechanical means including information storage and
retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.
The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts
in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Michalis Mavrotheris
michalismavrotheris@gmail.com
Printed in the United Kingdom
ISBN-978-1-291-88546-0

Bad red blue, blue Poetry

&
other
compulsory unpaid labors

Mikhail Mavrotheris

this is a work of This and is dedicated to no one

Contents
From Glasgow to Ukraine and back.
You
call
without/with
blood life
rape/bend
5:30 pm
Merriam & I
void of heart
the wrong pills
she found it
running for president
Dishwashers.
ALPHA BETA GamMA
bombs will be falling like rain drops
Good Morning Vietnam
NO ON ON ON ON
light
BLA(N)C@T
Lovers
Of Cock and Loss
The wind in Ithaca
l md
All the apologies of the world and
nothing
86'd, We
Here
Letters to a wall.
play the piano
The case of a case
Ice dreams
Song for Govanhill
I know a place
This
YOU-Turn:
Ideally Corrupted:

9
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49

From Glasgow to Ukraine and back.

Chips get you feckin fat... dammit I love them,
she said.
Computer's fuckin slow as fuck,
I said,
breaks my fuckin nerves, I mean you know
I got this poem
that's gonna save fuckin Miss Humanity hah and it's fuckin
stuck.
I took a swig from my quarter of
scotch
laying next to her on the bed,
I looked at her and smile
she was stunned
watching classic shit on the screen.
You know, bombs:
bombs in Ukraine,
bombs in Syria,
bombs
getting blessed by priests in
Russia,
bombsvery fresh and just out of the factoryin
America we
(are supposed to) trust,
bombs
everywhereevery
body loves
bombs
life is fuckin
bombastica gross inflation of bombs, inflation, inflation, inflation
Flames.
Do you like my hips? she
asked.
Mmmm, great! They're great,
I said, then silencedpretending paying attention. I went:
Can we change channel?
I mean you try to get me horny while
watching not so

horny
shitat least they ain't suppose to be
horny
stuff, let's talk about Scottish independence...
But everyone gets bombed nowadays,
she said,
what's the big deal anyways, once you fucked me while watchin
Saving Private Ryan.
True, I added, true.
We are humans, she said, all we need is a good
fuck,
some cheap promise from a man if you're
a woman, and a good
head
if you're a man.
True, I said and lit a smoke, true.
Drugged a lungful
and stared at the Nazis takin over
Ukrainebig time shit.
Love is strange, she said, it's like tragedy... she paused and then went
again,
at first is so
comic.
We shut our mouths and watched for a bit what was goin on
on the screen,
listen to the dramatic voices of the western
journalists
competing with each other who was gonna
present more blood,
who was gonna discover first
the most deaths of beheaded
kids, who was gonna find and interview
the raped ones and the starved to death
onesfor a good reason though:
to feed our bloodthirsty
well paid
western asses, then of course,

10

to inform us. These are the happy days

of a man living in peace.
The tragedy, at the time, wasn't that her ass
was getting bigger and bigger
by the day
from eating all those
chips,
it wasn't that I was more stoned and harder
than
a stone
with cheap drugslegal or illegal onesor that I was drunk as
fuck
just able to perform a decent
fuck;
after all we were living
in peace, right?
Well, of course, the tragedy of Ukraine was epitomized in
a random MacDonald's clerk
running
to his counter acting his everyday theatre-act to feed dudes
like you and me, and he simply
had to walk faster than usual because
a Russian might blow his brains;
in a bar that plays the very same music as usual to entertain
the very same
regulars
even though a bomb might fall
exactly
outside its entrance;
in a woman who runs frustrated down town in Crimea to her lawyer
because her
divorce papers
are delayed and she wants to assure her new
lover that she's free
and ready to live
and fuck
with him foreeeeeeeever;
in a kid that walks among the ruins of a city
to go play
soccer with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, then start
a fight too for a foul

11

in the street;
in the very serious issue for film lovers that Kusturica is perhaps
thinking his next
project;
in the fact that Jim Jarmush's last film was fuckin
fantastic.
Tragedy is when comedy meets
her fat ass
getting filled with chips'
saturated fat,
and my lungs and gut with
smoke and
alcohol, while still
laying on the very same
bed,
eatin the very same
cock and cunt,
wasting our remaining days
and crying
afterwards about what we'll call tragedy just because
we're supposed to.
I drink, I smoke, I do drugs and I'm proud when I compete
the quantity I consume
with other douchebags
and dipshits
similar to me in the
pub;
'cause that's the only shit we have been
left with or taught to do.
She drinks only a bit, she doesn't smoke, she does a spliff
once a while
and she needs a whole chips industry to feel
gratified,
when back in East Germany a kid would be happy as fuck
with a piece of Haribo per day, while kids in Cyprus, Greece, America,
UK could
afford
a whole bag.
Now she crawls next to me, she pets me
as if I'm a fuckin

12

cat
but with sexual benefits, and I say in a very serious tone because it
seems to be the only thing that matters at the time:
Do you think I shall shave
my head?
What is unbearable is not the
different; (oh NO)
what is unbearable is not the bad art, theatre, music of
Cyprus or of any other
nation I happened to view.
The unbearable is a simple fact. Casablanca is not the answer, you kno,
play it Sam, and then, the fundamental things apply
as time goes by.
Oh NO!
The unbearable fact about this fuckin life is that there's
NO FUCKIN DEFFERENCE.
And we're pretty damn angry 'bout IT.
You see, in Ukraine they still
chew the very same
chips,
and similar kinda cocks and cunts are getting
eaten too:
there are no serial nazi or no-nazi killers, it's all about
the same
dudes,
as us, who want to believe that they live
in peace or that there is
peace
and they want to fight for it like
birds on the wire;
the ones live it;
the rest pretend living it;
and that's the real tragic outcome
of today.
We don't know what love is, we never learnt (the truth
is that we got the knowledge 'cause we paid prestigious academies to
get it but never really

13

learn
to learn),
and we don't know what matters the most:
a bag of chips,
a condom,
or a nice car. Our houses have never been ruined and our
mouths are still functioning like
exhaust pipes;
we are a bunch of drunken bastards, beaten alcoholics lost
in the morning fog
of our gaze,
or a clan of pseudo-sophisticated western losers who romanticize their
decadence
to feel good of their
worthlessness.
We are no
bodies and every
bodies;
slaves and freedom fighters when there's dough for reward;
we are no
bodies and every
bodies...
The bag of chips was on the floor
empty, she fell asleep, the bottle in one hand
the fag on the other,
the shadows from the screen on the white
walls,
and the sadness of the world in a threnody the poets still
sing.
I tossed the cigarette's ash in the tray, let the smoke rAn slow
out of my
lungs and mouthash fell on my belly.
Ash

everywhere.
Eventually.

Ash,
Ash,
Ash--- (shhhh)
Ha--hahaha!
Ha!
Hah!

14

Ha!

Ha!
Ha!

Ha!
HA!

Hahahahaha!
Hehehhehehehe! Hihihihi!
Ho!
Ho!
Ho! Ho!
HA! Hah! Hah!
Cheerio.

15

You:
you hate me
good
you have me
good
you show me the way out
good
you loved me
good
you you you you hate me
good
you you you; you you me too much
not good.

16

Pull the trigger/I got the bullet

say it/shut the fuck up
you know/I don't NO
OOH
you... don't know?/end/please give an
end, it's 5-6 words/
call
please.

17

I lived without/
I lived
with,
I lived and I was defined
from slow
and unwound
tardy clocks;
I lived
without,
with insatiable
thirstiness.
Turn off
the light. The strange creatures
have arrived.

18

Love thy work. There's blood

in this life. The rise of men
into the notion of work, the fall,
and the rock bottom. I'm working,
a man says, at any given
place, or another says
I worked. Or I'm trying
to make it
work.
Seven days, 8 hours
each.
If you write
there's some fullness before or
after or during work;
writing is the answer to everything
when you're a writer; you will be
working
for long.
The emptiness of the other's life
within you,
then late
at night
on the bed staring at the ceiling.
Buckling up, turning the key
on the ignition
and driving home. And work,
work, work and work. Yes!
Love thy work.
At around 60, after retirement
you think of working
things out.

19

The world would still be

in the same process
of development
even when while walking down
the street
on a starry night
a man stops you just to say:
Hey what's the craic?
and you go: Dunno man, what's the
craic?
Aye, what's the craic?
Yea, what the fuck's a craic?
Then he goes again: I mean, how ya
doin?
and you go: Aw! Oh! Not much,
same shit
different day
He looks at you
and you look at him
and so he goes:
May I rape/ you
please
promise to pull out.
You look at him and think
that this world is getting
really kind, these might be
the better days
you were promised in a debate
on the screen,
then of course you do what you'd do anyways:
bend.

20

5:30 pm Dj Vu
What I usually do
after waking up
is preparing a cup
of coffeesometimes
tea, then I light a smoke
and start thinking of last night's
dream:
where did it go?
I wash my face and
teeth,
wear my work cloths,
and sat in a subway's bench
waiting for the train,
and I think of various ways
of how the world
can be destroyed
in order to sustain my life back
from empty, empty, empty, empty
promises.

21

Merriam & I
In the beginning it took us plenty of time
to figure out
how bastard
I was,
and whether she was
a whore;
this is a civilized world, we concluded,
full of words and a shitload of dictionaries;
we stick to
prick
and cunt.
And/that's the best/ we could/do;
In such ssssssState

22

crowded, noisy,
smoky,
void of heart
he looked at/her,
she looked at/him.
he finished his drink
and gathered in his pockets his few
belongings:
a pack of smokes, a BIC lighter,
his fingers,
then walked out.
he slept on the couch
with the TV
ON,
ON,
ON,
on,
on,
o, o,
o, o, o... Oh.

23

our ordinary
random man walks in the pub,
sits on a stool
and lights a smoke,
orders a drink,
the bartender brings him a
head
just cut, fresh and juicy,
the barman says.
thanks, our ordinary man says
and blows a lungful
on the head,
from the head's mouth
a rose is rising
out
stops at about
30 centimeters high.
I again
must have taken the wrong
pills, he thinks/and
smells
the flower:
all
he can do.

24

I saw her walking down

the street,
her head
was goneprobably
left it home
her legs were thin and wooden
like broom sticks,
she took a pack
of Lucky Strikes
out of her purse,
then looked for the
lighter,
there it is
she found it.
took a cigarette out of the pack
and wondered for long, long, long, long,
long time
while sitting on a bench
where
to stick it.

25

as a hobby in my spare time

I buy
birthday
cakes,
place them on the table
in the kitchen
then I cross
my fingers
and
wait and wait and wait
for Marilyn Monroe
to jump out of them
and say,
Hey! Happy Birthday Mr President,
but it never
happens,
and I'm pissed
and I dunno
what to do,
so I buy more
and more
and more
and more cakes, eventually
I eat them
and I turn fat
as fuck,
big as a hippo
I can barely move,
sweat oozes from my oily
skin
in hot summer nights
and I watch TV
and more TV
and way more TV and I'm
happy
and I ain't happy, I'm bored with everything
and so I get
stoned
and get drunk
and I'm fucked
up, and I'm glad because next year I'll start running
for president.

26

Dishwashers.
He could have been my best friend,
another man in a threesome,
my brother, ,
or even my god and
saint.
But he was another dishwasher, the one
next to me
in the kitchen of the Chinese
restaurant,
whoever really was is not of my
concern
or of any importance
now
after some time
and plenty of lines;
he was some
body like me
standing in the sun
smoking
roll ups
and waited
to get paid; because there was nothing else worth
waiting for.

27

ALPHA
Male
Suck mah Dick;
BETA
GamMa
et cetera,
you're
welcome.

28

When the world will be getting

bombed
and bombs will be falling
like rain drops
all over the place/
and everything will get
captured in flames/
and everything will seem so
but so
bombastic,/
immaculate/lit
I'd like to have [then] a nice cuban cigar
among mah lips,
a glass of fine scotch,
be sitting on an armchair
on a tall building
next to a small round table
with a vase on it that'll contain just
one
red, red, red, red, red, red, scarlet rose
and listen to Debussy's
Suite Bergamasque, L75-Claire De Lune,
and then I'd be more than
proud
for being as closest as possible
to the human concept,
thenaye, then
I'll sing or even
dance for you.

29

Good Morning Vietnam

Who the fuck's you, anyways?
I don't get it man, you seem
fucked, and you ain't the only one.
The war's over,
but the screen's on-----[shshshshsh]
Glimpses. Gleams. Glints
shadows on the white wall.
The war now is a show who's high
definitioned; the best
enterprise,
GREATsmart phoned
and plugged in your rusty educated brain.
we are young, fresh and already drowned,
though; Hitler, Stalin and the rest of the guys
taught us well how to paint and
to get out of us the best
we can
and that's what we do;
wasted
we paint flowers in the pot.

30

There're NO great minds;

there were never
any,
NO, NO, ON, NO, NO, NO
NO, NO, NO, ON, NO, NO
NO, NO, NO, NO, ON, NO
NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, ON
there's only pierced
balls,
madness,
drugs,
drugs,
drugs,
drugs,
booze,
booze,
booze,
booze + unfulfilled
dreams +
the great feast,
oh, ahahah, the great feast our
generation was promised
that I/U never
got to taste
as we remain locked in schools of economics
and shitneering.

31

Come and see the light

the only light
the only light
the only light
among mah legs.
Aye, aye!
Cum

Alive!

Hurry!

32

B
L
A
(N)
C@
K
t
e
a
c
h
m
e
y
o
u
r
t
r
i
c
k

s
.

(meoooow)

33

Lovers
Next to the bar there are four girls dancing. Electrified...
Like damned jumping chimps... They stop to gulp a shot of
tequila and continue... One is fat and short and reminds
him of a pig. She has short black hair though... The two are
thin, one tall, the other short, both blonde... The fourth just
looks retarded, drooling... The guy looking at them is in a
crystal clear California dreamin' mood... Five random
people meet... Their emotions are drowned... and mixed in
a cocktail certainly for gods... The guy walks outone
ingredient less. He gets in his room and turns on the
lights... An expression of pain on his unshaved face...
Turns off the light... Talk to him, don't be scared; he's just
sad thinking of her:

A broken human consciousness; scotched

by death; blown to smithereens
by the end.

34

Of Cock and Loss

He had a cock... oh bhoy, never seen such a thing,
huuuuugeJesus feckin Christ... I was thinking 'bout her
again, I'm really a big ass fuck-up, everything I touch turns
into shit... And he wanted to shove it up my ass, really
can you believe this... She used to say that she loved me,
how did it all vanish just like that?... Anyways, I let him
Ah mean, how many times did you get the chance to sense
a 12 inches cock up your ass?... I kno, there's a space for
us somewhere 'round here, just dunno where exactly,
'kay? Cock my ass, I thought after he stuck it in and
finished a minute later ...

35

The wind in Ithaca

Peristalsis. I'm a god. I'm a whorrified whore. In Glasgow
we got some life, we're, here, lonely demons in hell, we just
drink our faces off. In Pittsburgh we used to fuck in toilets
some times, dunno why, and drink afterwards. Cops all
around the world use their tins to fuck chicks and the life
of creative lads. Crime is the ultimate form of creativity; it
has the only purpose anyways and crystal clear meaning.
Probably, cops are bastards and sons of depressive sluts. I
dunno man, it seems to me that london is a shithole, why
would you ever be proud being from or living there. Royal
chimps jumping on the screen/shadows on the wall. Look at
all these idiots celebrating the birth of another prince, an
anthropoid god, the closest to the earthly standards, and
their wasted taxes on another little royal chimpanzee. At
least G.W. used to be a drunkard, then alcohol-fucked he
played with democracy and freedom; sound interesting
toys. Death's for assholes. And of course your veteran
grandpa's dead and we have not a spare single fuck to give
'bout it. Glasgow IS the best and I don't really care if your
mom keeps taking it from behind, why would I? Two
waiters serve me oysters, whisky of Scottish origin and
Greek salad on a table by the beach in Ithaca. I think of
explosions and giant fishes with human legs walking
towards me. The wind rises the sand and buries us all
under it. Then, no wind, dark and chilly, just the sound of
the waves.

36

 l md
I shut the fuck up for a moment and looked in her eyes,
because before, I was talking to a random girl about my
writing skills. She loves poets. All girls love poets and no
one really knows the reason. And all of a sudden I asked
her whether she was into Mikhail Mavrotheris' new stuff
just because he wrote a book no one understood and so it
was perceived as a work of art and it was enough good to
get him in a party early that September and keep him
drunk for months since he wrote it in a way to get cleansed
by the love he was still feeling for a girl called Christie, Mia,
Iris, Anna, Marina or something like that, who left him
'cause he was a constant drunk fuck-up; in search of a way
to drown and forget. Yes, said the girl, it sounds that he
could turn it into a cheap commercial novel or a movie with
Cameron Diaz and this lame anorgasmic English douche
Hugh Grant or that butterfly guy... what's his name...
Ashton Kutcher. I mean you kno, Mavrotheris was still
drinking back then and every body used to like him for
sayin all these crazy stuff and going naked with the whole
thing and then trying to screw every hole in the party,
never understood though why he threw that violin down
the window that day, I mean how did he know that J.
couldn't play Sibelius if he's no musician and he's just a
writer? But you see, it's the nostalgia of some true gone
love. Love's a cup of tea that steams when's cold around.

37

All the apologies of the world and nothing

Eros is a case of wounded egoism, you kno... Love's
nothing... nothing but a fuckin crutch sticking out of the
mouths of the ruffians... Hatred! Aye! Hatred is the best
we can make, we could always make, and we're pretty
successful with it, not just in terms of war and this big time
shit, but in the small time stuff... it's in every day's
trivialities, aye, aye, ask my ex, ask my best friends who
are definitely not all of them my friends, but actually my
enemies... hatred... it's all we gotta give; we got enough to
built new systems and new godsmore honest to our ways
of life... and you kno, hatred's nothing but the outcome of
love and eros, nothing less nothing more, just an innocent
creation within us, within the mixture of what we're made
of... its production has no difference from the production of
the average kid brought to this earth... and today is the day
that earth still stands.

The
story of the war, of every tragedy, is the story of every single one of us

38

86'd, We

ERROR 404
The page cannot be found.
The page you are looking for might have been
liberated, democratized or is temporarily
getting bombed.
Please try anything of the following:
If you sat on the wrong couch, move to
the other for a better view.
Turn ON your i-phone, and then play
Candy Crush.
Click the Guide button to try another
channel.
Press Go button, and then go fuck
yourself.

39

To my beloved Anastasia
Here
in this place
I almost
got myself
killed
one night,
and this means
nothing
at all.

40

Letters to a wall.
.
I always write to you carefully about many things. But
there would always
be things
I cannot say,
that
disappear like fireflies
in the night
next to trash cans.
II.
Now, each letter you receive from me, you hide it
somewhere.
You light the lamp and you read it,
stumbling on orthographical mistakes and on my bad
hand
writingeach word's like an awkward
bird that clangs
...
III.
Those letter's truth lies on the blank lines
among the paragraphs.
You fold it. You jam it into the dispersed
notes on which some nights
you
get screwed in rush with the first dick you fish
to quench your vanity's thirst,
before driving
back to your mommas place. And you forget it,
there.

41

To Mical, my comrade
Play the piano
driven from ecstasy
play the piano
and dance
in the empty smoky room
alone,
play the piano and
burn
by its notes
and become free;
ash
in the wind
for a while
ash's free, ash's free,
ash's free, ash's free,
ash's free, ash's free
only
the ash.

42

The case of a case

My life's a cigarette, the rest's fire and monastery. Burn
everything, and just let the ash to cover me as I lay in front
of an electric fan. The hair are flapping, the voice's remain
broken and the black and white image devious. Like a film,
now, one thing to remember: our life is a circle
particularly round for some particular round occasion.
Special case, the specialists will say, and then they'll lock
us in a white room with white cloths with long sleeves that
tie the hands on the back. And let it all to pills and
syringes, just to pass the time, then we'll get
electroshocked and doses of Tryptizol and electric wires
and lambs; sheep, cats, cows tall and fat with round piggish
eyes looking at you as if you came from another planet and
smile at you as if they pop out from a Colgate commercial.
Everybody knows, but me. Maybe only my mom. Mothers
know everything, anyways, before they even happen.

43

Ice dreams
In a blue blue bar a gray gray day two yellow yellow
stickers or labels of a chips' commercial are on the wet
wall; a wall fresh painted with blood and sweat. The first
time... I don't remember how it happened, I was drunk
probably and so from now on I drink only soda water or
coke 'cause I recently drank all I was supposed to have in
two or even three lifetimes or for the next hundred
thousand million years to come. And he started counting
again the moments that were gone forever. And then he
thought of the hundred faded years or so, but I know for
sure that when we had the accident we were going with
hundred miles an hour. That's a fact. The bumper broke
and the condom of the man in the back seatthe damage
was 2 in 1. But you see, I'm obliged to inform you that we
had all kind of tastes of condom you'd wish for, back then:
strawberry, raspberry, mint, chocolate and anything else
you can usually take in a cone, even though I prefer the
cup 'cause it lasts longer. I hope this all mess is happening
for a good reason and yell a big thank you 'bout this. And
be sure, I'll always be calling you every time I feel the need
to cone a say over you. Because my love is a blue blue
martlet that flies on your arm to perch in your palm.

44

Song for Govanhill

I live in Govanhill, you
kno,
and I love Govanhill,
I think it's the best
place in the whole
wide
world;
the cleanest, safest
and most beautiful
place.
My love for Govanhill
is not a red red rose
that's newly sprung in
June and bla bla bla
my love for that place
is like a big, huge,
gigantic chocolate ice
cream cone
even like
a jar of nutella
in which kids dip their
fingers and lick 'em,
refreshing like a cold
plum,
sexy like the pointy
edge of the almonds,
mysterious
like
passion fruits.
Govanhill,
Oh
Govanhill
sweet like Haribo
pretty & healthy like a
fried
Mars
bar.

45

Blank pages
and blank writers,
I know a place where we can hide
I just don't know where exactly is, Okay?
'Kay?
Dying as a poor poet is not something
to be proud of
is not even close to conquering
your own self;
it's like having nitroglycerin
cocktails
and then lighting a smoke;
writing poetry has no
particular meaning
or sense,
it seems empty some times
as if you're burning from the
sun
coming through the window
in the morning
and wondering now what?
there're more courageous things than writing
poetry or doing art
and that's simply the way
she is
just shoot it, push the button
and send us all to hell,
and then we might sit
and seek for the meaning
and find the answer
and the question, okay?
do it.

46

This

This is this.

This aims to objectify the meaning of the words and whatever can be
seen or felt on a state of existence.
Objectify the moment. Turn it into a
moving and instinctive statue resembling certain traits of reality,
while putting it in is own
(separated from reality)
dimensions.
This equalizes the ordinary tongue with anordinary aspects we sense
in the meaning within everyday prosaism and chronic and ethical
boundaries.
poetry within poetrybecause there's no bad
or good poetry; there's no poetry at all.
Poetry is not writtenpoetry is happening, is a happening, is an event,
is an experience, and what's put down on paper is nothing but the
oddment of that experience.
Poetry is every thing & every body.
In This there's the idea that art is to bring the unfulfilled human
dreams and urges into life in a variety of forms. This works the
unfulfilled and matures it in the morph and praxis of art, giving it back
to human that is exposed in a process of divulgation and denudation of
the human experience.
In This art connects the visible with the sensible while filling it with
blood to be alive in aspects of infinite interpretation. It has no such
thing as orthography or grammar, it's free, free, free.
In This art is a cathartic process. The catharsis from the human
experience and aims this experience's vindication. Because no matter
what, human is the most tragic creature of them all; knowing of its
own death and easily is deluded due to needs, seeking progress and
belief in gods that betray her/him every single day of existence.

This is to express whatever the human can express and cannot

express. Because in This, this is simply this, not that, not these, not
those.
This is simply this.

47

YOU-Turn:
When you go to Lidl for shopping
you pretty much buy
a Lidl
bit
of everything,
and it needs strength to know
that you're able
to do that,
because there's always the very same YOU
who's unable,
I have seen people going for shopping
with a bucket
'cause they couldn't afford
a 6 pence plastic bag,
and I dunno man, this torn me apart,
and I'm sorry if I get sentimental now;
I'm sorry if I became clich or
whatever you sophisticated
scholars
and hipsters and Boston educated call it;
I'm terribly sorry, but that's how I felt.

48

Ideally Corrupted:
Eventually the ideas
die
or evaporate from your mind,
or they even get
established
and you figure out that is all done
from some inner tendency
to follow the many,
the fashion
and the fools who use the unknown
words,
you see, some of us are rebels or
ideologists
or rusty anchors in the academies
'cause
our pocket can afford it,
and others who might really be into
the mood to die for an idea
it's because they are either
fools
or they refuse/forget the fact of their
own death
there's no such thing as revolution
or equality
or independence
because there're such things
as humans,
and then you die;
and even Socrates or Che or
Jesus died.

49

I dreamt of seahorses kissing your legs

and I almost fell in love with youit was like
I had to.

I a.m. YOu*...
50

(!!!).
*YOu=you

Ich bin die Stimme der Gottlosen GotHaulen.

Ihre Liebe schlft in meinem Bauch

mein Bauch ist dein Reich

51

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53

His name is Mikhail Mavrotheris (1988-?) and he's a creature widely

known as human. He's a starving writer (like many of you) born in
Nicosia, Cyprus under strange circumstances; the doctor who brought
him out said: It was meant to happen, you knohe [Mikhail] just
happened. With this & that, he hASs previously published two books
of Poetry, Thanatography (2010), Blood on the Rocks (2013), a book of
This, Letters From Glasgow (2013). This is his fourth book. He now
resides in Glasgow, Scotland. He likes chocolate ice-cream, passion
fruits, almonds and cold plums.

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