over the sunrise views
porpoise-play
and Pagasaean Gulf
with all its blue-white
sun-tanned pleasures

above the summer homes
out of those mesh-canopied beds
past our outdoor showers
dripping with grape-vines and late-morning ***
decadent breakfasts of fresh
half-euro loaves
Käse and Jam
or Gurke-Tomaten Salate
with "Hermes" flying
in our ears
hair and food

over the wake-boarding lessons
the minefields of neon violet-yellow Quallen
beach games
done with a hundred some-odd oracles
the Tractatus
but not the dead seahorse i found  floating before our argument
free from those schedules
the system of sunscreen application
bathroom and kitchen protocol

far from quintilingual fisherboys
the stucco church cartooned with gospel
its old priest grinning with his martial pride and simulated machine-gun fire
away from translating in my sleep
national pride
shame
and culture shock
forgetting that quiet dialogue of judgment
smiling between tourist and local
far from the baklava docks
Gigantes and stuffed peppers
Zorba refrains
swigs of Mythos and Feta

perhaps somewhere like the source of the Plateia spring
   where once the Argonauts had quenched their thirst
past burnt olive trees
past the first line of blazing hills

there
there i sense the fertile green i've always known

O
my gaze drinks the sweaty yield of exploration's calm

breathless
wearing rivulets of long-yearned release

so redolent the shade
in a ravine holding ****** silence

i eagerly descend
and find my eagerness returned
in measured wounds
low lying branches

sparse brambles
crowding soon
see me crouched
and crawling down

as if to judge me worthy of its solace
the leaves of late summer
once blades of moisture
twice as sharp in death
pierce my pressing hands and knees
allow the taste of sweat to sting my path

as if embitterment itself becomes a sweetness
colluding for my darker whims
breaks of thorns enmeshed with trees
gnarled sentinels for raking
joyous stripes of blood
brittle roots eroding into air
to scour off my sunburnt skin
invigorate the tension for my goal

remembrancing the threading cores of shrubline life
i lull into the swoon again
stringing slow sun
in husks of brown
wire gates to consummate a nether craving's peak
choke and lash of myth and love
a penance ecstasied in shade
a fleecing dark i will deny

My thoughts continue to flow on a roller coaster track. In my mind there is a feast of assumptions, of embitterment, of fear. I must not give in to your innocent enticement because now I am running out of words yet my crooked wishes are fighting a war against my new found cynicism.
You certainly are the dangerous kind.

I tried to put the pieces back together and it was never easy to sew back the buttons with an invisible thread. I have spent countless of hours, days and nights, burning bridges just to feel nothing and what have you done? If you are trying to destroy whatever  amount of peace of mind was left in me then you have won.
You certainly are the dangerous kind.

You chant those words like a song trapped in your head - impatiently and persistently trying to make a way out through an orchestral whip of your tongue. You pulled me in only to throw me out.
A kindness that is cruelty in disguise,
Your indifference comes in forms of smiles.
You certainly  are the dangerous kind.

You've played marvelously.
You've been what I wanted.
You've maintained the perfect amount
of          disconnection
of          apathy
of          nonchalance
and       disinterest

And it has driven me mad.
I've been writing songs about you.
You've got me the perfect kind
of          obsessed
of          committed
of          infected
and       controlled

I mean, don't get me wrong:
My rhetoric gives the false impression
That I'm not enjoying this immensely.
It's been a long time since anyone moved like you.

I could accuse you of cheating
But only in embitterment
Only because I don't want to be drowned
In rules I don't remember.

There's something tragic here.
But it's the perfect kind
of          adversity
of          affliction
of          infelicity

Of tragedy.

with a hair tuck the atoms bent
to curl in a loop around her ear
compressed into a snaking stream
of custard comets, pouring down
her neck, over collar bones, passed
the ribcage made of gold limestone
holding grains of sparrows eggs turned
to sand, from ten thousand years ago

seeping into skin, grey fake tan of
statues, mountains, ocean beds alike
the ache in the pulse at her wrist from
the steady thrum injection of the worlds
squeezed, twisted, turned and churned
into a potion, a medicinal miracle, a fine
powder substance that grows at liquid's
touch.

dripping through her palms, fingertips
to create a stain upon the sugar paper
flesh of others, like a children's picture
turned tattoo in highlighted colour and
sound, drumming into ears, road works
on the way to the brain, cause a migraine
cells screeching to infiltrate all they touch
bred, genetically modified, embitterment
of the human race, a flawless system of
this, that, none other, its aim to destruct
befores and reconstruct them differently
against the wishes of the girl who calmly
indifferently, lazily, unknowingly, seductively
tucked that lock of hair behind her ear.

maybe you’re 24 years old
but the clairvoyance of my mind
can read, in text,
the preoccupation of your own
filled with mad love,
materialistic inadequacies,
heartbreaks,
relationships,
the standard practice
to contemplating suicide,
stewing on the embitterment
of fleeting thoughts from
actions made by chief adversaries,
your appearance,
your attire,
your insecurities,
your petty grievances,
your suspicions of infidelity,
disillusioned to the poisons of life
and the fragments of clarity
the fog of quietus hasn’t quite
reached the imprisonment
of your own creation
and the blue jays of despair
haven’t came pecking on
the crumbs of your viability
you haven’t been through
enough ******* yet,
through and through,
to let that all go
the callow is seeping
out of your bone marrow
and written in scripture
on your 12 year old face

the freakshow never ended
embitterment and disappointment that slowly
crept up my spinal cord
as the man in baggy pants shows his many modification—
Van Gogh-like, ethereal art of unconsciousness,

To err on the side of caution here is not to try at all
Fold, unfold and refold to stare at clipped wings
With the icy squalls and treacherous winds
Perhaps not to fly is a blessing after all
Tarry not, come whispers from lonesome depths
Subterfuge is no sin for a weary heart
To receive and not give and not come apart
Only the lucky and the naive dare take the plunge
Down the crimson stained ravines in which the fallen still lie fresh
Dashed on jagged edges of lovers' valleys steep
Embitterment on their tongues as the rocks on jellied flesh
Plagued with numbness by day and nightmares in sleep
Lock, unlock and relock this sepulchre of emotion then
Let me out of here and perish with these thoughts
Tread forbidden paths all over their souls
They crisscross like passions and tangle in knots
Unscathed forevermore, immortal be the insouciant

Out of a place,
Of scorn and embitterment,
An outpouring of scorching mentions,
From whence came so much adoration.