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A Non-Sense Adieu?

What is Visby without a V
Without a b
Just an isy way to be
Nothing matters either

What is Visby without la vie
Without to be
Just an S in Baltic Sea
Just an S without the Ex
All the rest and all the Pre

What is Visby before me
Just a Visby vis-à-vis
That goes by
If not Me

What will Visby tend to be
Just a thought a priori
That exists before I see
As the Beauty in you and me

No please,
other sweetie words for me
Other sweaty ways to be
It will slip as memory

This land brings me
Back to see
Everywhere berry-tea
“So cool contitori!”

You have to choose category
To be in you
Or you in me
Not just “to be or not to be”

I am diluted in the sea
If not now in a short time
I´ll be a memento mori in eternity
I love you and there is no way to be
You in you and me in me

Visby is the capital of the swedish island Gotland in the Baltic sea.


The knuckles of his fingers opened

so as that the materiality of the moment be betrayed
or otherwise impart grounds
or another give it a place within time
an aureole (as affectation) to go along
the united landscape ―
and if the landscape had joined him
and he was the display of any landscape’s part
had the landscape a priori borne all structures
(he knew
he could not sustain the tiniest thought
being here/there in perfect vacuum)

what after all does the landscape intend to say
through him?

And there was neither in reality, nor in the poem,
nor in intermediation any solution but a convex
or stretching of the idea

(depending on the will he set onto a pregnant line



to H.V. < J.A.< F..P.

The hand is stressed to reach the lens
The face for a moment is disfigured
If it stops now it will kiss an existing image
I will remember you ever and ever
I will remember you after my death
You wouldn’t expect me to be voiced in this way
This is not me
It is the subject of this poem
This is living now not the hands and the eye above it
It is looking how to place its hand
(in such a manner this time)
So that
it gives all its love
(no matter how much you need)

Nevertheless this is a historical poem
between two mirrors
As long as our love can make up history



to Eleni Vakalo

Ηow do we expect the CERN experiment

Another fall like as I am not
Letting go of your hand

While you move away

And these meters look like a feeling




“It isn’t for certain that we can encircle with words the same
principles of reality

And what a strange thing: not just of the fact but also of that
one which runs undercurrent since you invent a second pole
for every thing”

Why do we ask ourselves for motives and choices before
this romp that turns round getting our kids

Let’s go on then this one way direction that carries on the
ride of our doubts

Neurophysiology was the obstacle of our time, the
dissolution of our succession (the release of our succession?)

Here they whirl –and if they stop they will appear I told you–
the organic elements that gallop while they sleep

Lumini and Sombri

If I was in dread of something, it was a third unidentified version.



the dispositional axis of thought breaks through parallel
worlds –fried sticks of onion in spiral shaping served cold

Thanks God it’s Friday–

it leaves displayed all the circumstances in which it has been
involved and caught in its filament (filament again or clue?)
it becomes independent·

the most interesting joke is this distance between conception
– contingency that expands with analytic bridges

o ludwig ludwig oh ooh oooh
that e x p a n d s ho ho ho


–sorry but what else can be done, this free besieged

atavistic mind– ooooooooomonobloc!!!

humbugging for a counterpoint!



in a way proportional those voids that say “full of sense”


–a sachet that flies and flies (American beauty)


or when control and reason were lost (genuinely only
without reason) –

that step onto invisible rules of the motif art


they do not exist but for their void itself
and their acoustic opposite tone tous tous

within limits of a “pre-established” harmony






“Ladies and gentlemen velcommen; quiet please; as you can see, that is, as you can’t see, we know not whether our compliant cat is dead or not. Right now, I would ask a member of the revered audience to concede to paying to the order of a reversed proof, a proof anti-poetically literal (and not, one hopes, literally anti-poetical):

What about you, my pretty, lovely, come closer, ready?
ala uno ala due ala tre

(a cat is revealed comprised of innumerable phosphorescent d o t s)

Voila! The feline in love’s place!
to focus on it is to impart to it a form (mandatory)

if not it passes to your left and right → right through you:
is your preference to be enchanted into absence or to observe?

What are you waiting for?

Love, ooh, love is delivered along this experiment’s interpretation before a mirror
while the observing eye is observed – no small thing by any stretch

if you are courting knowledge that already possess
you put before the will’s upper cut to volition

Who, though, can occupy a viewing platform from the inside,
and see, say, the inverted image: no one

since, in order for something to hold meaning, some other thing must hold none whatsoever, a state regarding which, cherie, we lack all certainty

Unless the cat’s both dead and living!”






mr. archie passed through north carolina with a trombone
improvising; along the way he formed a band

what is the meaning of adjectives
if not the assault on meaning by means of sound?

descriptions of obsolete emotions: poetry

whatsatstakeisthisss : the wagtail’s ssslithering
(which is non existent: the wagtail neither wags its tail nor slithers)

taken further the analogy between one oxymoron and another:
as an instrument to investigate the future:

a nice bench with an ancestor on it sitting cross-legged

– what is he doing?
– he’s eating popcorn in anticipation! poetry

starts: after crushing the yin-yang medallion
while a russian roulette of bitter seeds keeps turning!

(on his knees) please: no more moving speeches
no more: light eyes blue body blood:

a form of resistance to the sickly sweet connotations of words

which topali strikes down: the sparkling firework of noble breed
elytis – elytis paaa! tsaaa!

(indeed, how is the import checked of non inductive reasoning
when the monitoring is done by boxes

within boxes in the depths of the mental landscape?)

what if everything has been shifted from drama →irony and vice versa
the lightheadedness remains caused by the possibility of non-existence

and the deep in breaths, the attributes of the catalyst
which dislodges all humid constants while it becomes plain

whatever is there for one spark and one alone …due to lack of oxygen

imaginary life is bound
and interrogated for red blood cells and premeditation

a thought below a compound of gasses was a newsworthy item
and the I …a doupt that is out of breath






certainly, most certainly, I have forgotten that friends and parents… no thing… no thing
they frame other friends and other parents and so on and so forth;

come, come: the resolved ambiguities of the present
safeguard against a merely dramatized inception, is that not so?


postcard 1: breathless woman incircled by damp gothic buildings,
2: red skyyellow housesblack water 3. viola da gamba

while, in borderline states you crave for all or nothing
you prefer to discuss yourself and that

in the manner in which that will imitate both you and itself!

nevertheless, you cannot find an escape from atonal reality
(a bosanova sway for your brimming eyes)

with a redemptive rhythm: you will be wounded unless
you contribute to the highest art of the open ended

where you do not wish for the poem to come to an end
but for it to come as it goes in a perpetual ending

to circulate as a hologram in your garden
gathering dendrites from matter and anti-matter invariably well watered!

poetry cannot be only whatever evades the word:

(your extremities have already begun to paralyze
the unaesthetic a river flooding you

while everything around you becomes curved your missiles are parabolas

for you to see to say to do to make appear the final vision
that you do not have time to inscribe

— your dislodged self next to you dismayed
watches you fade away and simply whispers:

“forgive me but it’s not my fault that we are part of some other part
and that you inhabit this naïve reality

you bred your mystery and brought it to fruition”

to state it face to face would be absurd: don’t say it:
that we, poets (what we? what poets? be that as it may)

bear reality inscribed in our nether parts






the one
who pounced on the lips of books
on waters of the black canals
and on museum gates

[ – How’re you doing, how’s everything?
(with a voice a few tones lower)
– Well, ok,
– You don’t seem quite well, what’s going on?
(with a voice after introspection)
– It may be depression.
– Because you came back?
(with a voice with no expression
or the usual irony
– No, Ι can’t spot it, no reason…]

the one
who got up five o’clock in the morning
to read Kopland?
or not
the one
who got up; so, since he got up
why not read Kopland?
the one
who got up without any thoughts, only
anxious to hold onto something?

“Garbage has to be the poem of our time”
but garbage in the Hague is not visible

Caws, iodine, humidity,
ocean and further down: urban culture

Acceleration de tous les sens
(that’s what he wished for)

Theory M came – and to explain ourselves
(that’s what he did not wish for)

Baaden-Bit could be
but it was nothing but a cheap/pricey λύσις

Τemporary toulips


λύσις /liּsis/ [greek] solution