An English Wednesday
The day spurs its integral space
A clot of red hair melting like wax
Over the under-afflicted face of hyperchondria.
The night spasms with sharp thunder
Sleepwalks on a patch of resting sea
An invisible wave bends
For him who widens such transparency
A soothing day has yet to come.
Drinking coffee and leaning
On the thick Jagermeister night
It looks barely unbalanced
Whipping itself onto my cup as if consoled
Dripleting three little ones
The fact of such a strange dream
Makes me inconspicuous of thinking about myself
I mean; consciously and in fact
Almost certainly undetached
Maybe it’s the alcohol or the computer
My fucking myopia
Τhat Walcott obsession maybe
A gray view of such LED colorfulness
Must make up some bleak diagnosis.
Τhe pulsive orb of insomnia is withheld
Maybe I’m just too self-concerned after all.
for J.Alfred Prufrock
Hermitage Waste is a shore
Not a museum
A tract of indented shield-shell
The acuteness of wave
Ancient saliva reaks
From its cedars like subtle resin.
Wandering the shore I wander
The bored indefinite aisle of my condo
And contemplating some verse I wonder
Almost theatrically as to where I shall crash
Such an under-composed self
Under the spine of whose dogma.
If dichotomy spawns meaning
A time to divide must be assumed
But if life feeds off its absence
Guess it’s a quarter-to ceasing.
©Chris Karageorgiou Kaneen
photo©Stratos Fountoulis-agrimologos.com, “Life-savers in blue” 2008
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