Κυριακή, 18 Νοεμβρίου 2012

sleepless on the moon

write write !!
she says
wrong yoi got it all wrong.
you' re there dancing with your teddy bear all high and mighty stuck on each other, posing for your magazines.
I' ve been to the moon and let me tell you, it' s got a dark side.
lost sailors live here stoned on drugs you never heard of.
Mexican aslan it will get you horny if you' re with a girl, but if you' re in front of the mirror for too long you' ll discover the word Suicide slashed on your chest. you won't even know, it's your hand holding the razor.
clowns deported from earth for making the audience depressed live here. they had to leave wives and children behind.
Syd Barrett dropped in one time but it was too creepy, too bizarre for him so he flew back home.
Major Tom gave him a ride.

-how can you stand it here? he asked throwing stuff in his suitcase.
-a girl I knew, drowned in a river I dreamt one night
-oh, I see.
his eyes did shine like a deer's on headlights.
-you know I' ve been insane for so long. it never gets easier.
-you should try falling in love.
-i think that's how it started.
it was my turn to say "oh, I see".
loud bang on the door.
the Major entered, completely dazed but so handsome in his uniform.
-gentlemen, our vessel is ready to jitterbug earthbound and you are invited.
-I see you' ve been hanging out with the sailors, Major.
-yes, indeed. fine lads they are and very generous with their stash.
-you' re sure, you' re in a condition to travel, Major?
-hey, I don' t have to drive. all I gotta do is fly.
he blinked his green eye, his blue one smiling at me.
-will you be joining us?
-no sir. I gotta feed the clowns and make sure the sailors don' t take off their gravity boots when they start dancing.
-a man' s gotta do what a man gotta do. I 'll be back next month with the supplies. let' s go, Pink.
-I told you a thousand times not to call me that.
-don' t be a sourpuss. I' ll let you play with the lasers. I know you love it when they go crazy once we reach the speed of light.
Syd smiled.
I offered to help with the suitcase but he waved me off. he took a book out of his back pocket and handed it to me.
-a parting gift, he said in his shy voice. a turkish baglama player we jammed in Rabat with, gave it to me. they' re poems by a guy called Kavvadias. just don't read "the knife". it might put ideas in your head.
they walked off bickering like school boys.
I laid on the double bed and started reading about a man who bought a knife.

Giorgos Trikeri 
for Evi Hassapides Watson

to learn more about Nikos Kavvadias: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikos_Kavvadias