ΣΚΥΛΛΑ & ΧΑΡΥΒΔΗ(2)

CHARYBDIS 

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a

Charge

For the hearing of my heart

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large

Charge,

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

(From the poem Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Path)

 

 Picture for poem CHARYBDIS(Photo by Helmut Newton)

The night smells brine, understated civility and stirring blood.

I am standing here, wide open,

Though you should know that I am a prison

Not in person

Dressed and acting for your pleasure.

A peculiar firefly flashed out

In the dark.

Lark on,

So you could never say: enough

To such a terrific spectacle.

A sprawling wonder

Justifiably leaving you aghast.

 

A sweet languor hooks you in first sight.

Foaming, roaring waves become

Meek and dull

To this miraculous beauty

Under the fig tree

Beyond the living sun.

You are invited here

To throw your bowline and formal tie;

To throb your marginalized hopes

And cast your day’s lag, and beaten hull.

My swirl, swish and restless toss

Will guarantee to any weary brain

An unforgettable, lasting lull.

 

My palliative isn’t here

To be passed,

But it surely represents a warrant

To the wise and the ignorant;

To the man of purpose

Or the one with the aimless heart.

It is not a bed of seaweeds

But pure velvet, primordial wool

So precious like a well kept secret

Never put to crude and rule.

My resistance and defiance

Of my treasure in compliance.

A spite to the spike

It’s not true!

It’s not true!

 

It’s the blues without a chain;

Churning, spinning, screaming, gaping

For the moment’s hero or sucker

Who speechless

Is searching for words

To find any man

In rugs or night silk

Wallowing and owning

Downright night candy

In the wake of a sordid, shocking moment

Turned quickly into a hogwash.

You’ve got the coins and the cons.

You can use my sultry slot.

Out of the wild, high seas,

The image

Is a menacing nemesis.

Between fangs and the slut,

It stands like a figure of speech.

When you hit rock bottom,

This is the hard place

For the metaphor in cinch.

This is my stand

Followed by a note of intentions

For the romantic criminal

And the odd bird on the lam.

 

I am a poem and a city

The end of things out of pity.

I am the inkwell

When in want of ink

To compliment the ranks

And give a fabled, ending touch to think.

 

Drink, sound, shout, and declare

Like fury in a rhyme

Merciful witch

Burning in stile.

Style the stake

And mount the tide.

 

Ram it in; to meter and measure

The matter and threshold

Of my abysmal, time related

Nature and mind.

Be kind!

One of a kind

Known to seven seas

And all the seductive

Far away corral reefs and isles.

Adventures have been accumulated

In every stride to make a pile.

You know, it is not hard at all

the coming and going from Hades.

It’s just a fall

An up again we go.

Isn’t it so

To the prevailing lore?

What makes and what breaks

In life and death we trust.

Everything charges

And turn in to be charged.

Deceitful duty

For beauty’s booty,

Insatiable gut

And crude boiling blood,

Either you have it or you don’t.

I am the challenge to your wisdom.

My type, everyone likes to escort

In a concert, how many notes

Can form an epic

In proportion to a storm?

When all will be done and broke,

I’ll throw up your wreck in spumes ashore.

That I have sworn.

You, fool you, I scorn!

I’ll make you wish

Never to be born.

Burning walls and citadels

Sent out curses and moans

Roaming along

With the rolling waves

To every shore and lasting port.

 

I can drive you blind

in the spot,

Make you crave,

And famish you with sad feelings

In search of words

And worlds out of line.

I am holding space and time

Age and rage, fate and state

Dreams for the morrow

What you’ll beg and borrow.

 

A starlit, deep ravine

Welcomes thick and thin.

I am the mill of events

You set out to scheme

I am the inarticulate barking mouth

The safety pin, the gun, the crest of armor

That you protect and you redeem

Like an old method, a lost and found pidgin,

a scorching paperback dirty novel,

a Fata Morgana on

An easy street or a comic

Marvel made in a streak.

 

A bath in blood

Of vamps

Entranced and trashed.

The night is young

The skills tried and bold.

Don’t hold

back!

Don’t hold

back!

Come to fondle.

Come to fold.

Flaunt the imperfection.

Pry on my old mystique.

Inebriated, lift up

My night skirt.

It takes a rake

To save a wreck

Here is

Where it all ends

Even for the everyday prep.

Don’t you ever think

Of a story to be

Worthy the risk of the fling.

Set on your bow

And sink in your stern

Face to race along

With an awl in hand

Ready to mend

Sails and log-scrolls.

 

A whirling cosmopolitan mirror

With my back

To the trunk

A wager on the quest,

guest and guess

Always bet in black.

The music strums out from afar

Guitars and besotted slurs

Claim victory over the night.

You are free to stay

And play the legendary passer by.

 

Your classic vintage face

Lay

Up like a stoker, a broker, or a rocker

The bigger the rogue

The better the din and disarray.

Flay

Out your distinction

And your crew’s swinish affliction.

All in fiction and prediction

Pale

For want of definition.

It is a mission

For the king of pain

With a sterling, starling and a crow,

A shining star above to rove,

And the light sense of a spring rain.

Everything runs loose

And the gain is to lame.

I won’t faint

In demand of a mate

Resourceful, creative

Undaunted and profane

To hilt, hid, heal and hale

A lesson of loss

A conversation tossed

And a choked, muffled sound

In the lane.

 

Love is what you make it, darling.

A tryst out of bounds

For all the yelling hounds

And murky fertilizers go to hell.

The peril with a pell-mell

Is how it looks

Never what it spells.

Everything beds and gels

Like the buds of the future

So sure on the trail

Each of us constructed and laid.

Creature of the night

Redolent with almond scent

And a burning sense

From the proverbial brand

For every corner and sidewalk

Plan to forget the harsh winter months.

 

Dark gleaming pits for eyes

And hair

So fair

blonde striking and streaking from a distance.

An irresistible moving force

A winning recipe endorsed

A swell elf

Struck serenading

For your Penny Opera in waiting;

Needing, needling alibis

For the suitors on the sides.

 

It seems as if I was born

Out of a scene for spies.

You must overcome the threads

And any shades of surprise.

Listen to my story

About dropping honeydew lips

And breath cut and served with spice.

My face is a bit aged and wild

But never mind the stellar

Confirmation.

It is a convincing expectation

When you find in my cellar

The much anticipated review of things

And the best in old wines.

 

Come to mother

Stealthily, slide deep in my being;

Soliciting my sizzling kiss

And balmy touch in strife.

What do you think

of all these serious assets?

Come out from your voiceless state,

Like bluntly amazed,

Wasted, silent

Almost stultified and nullified man

On the run; begging the question in mind.

 

Uhm! He said.

Another copycat siren

Cloven, tense and taint.

Though I had my cup full

Of jugged rocks, hot airs,

Appealing docks, and jaded

Beauties, gods and plots,

I have nothing here to claim

And I am nobody’s fool.

You want an answer?

Here, it comes.

At first, he was an old Pawnee Indian

Who came to grips with

The idea that life is a bitch

And then, you marry one.

On the way out,

in second thought,

You must be

What the Hebrew rabbi meant

For the salt of the earth is in thee.

Literally speaking and in strength

Definitely, you must be the one.

Wait! Wait! Hold on your swagger!

I am not yet done.

If my blind, enlivening bard

Kept the balance adjust,

It is the Beauty and the Beast

That I had to see, feel and outclass.

At this very moment

I can’t tell and give for certain

Who is who. Alas!

 

It is a heartbreaking special

For those

Who were never dealt

In such hands!

 

 

18 August 2007

Plateau Mont Royal

Montreal

Vlassis Kokkonis


 

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