The Marbles

Pericles

“Roll the dice, poor soul… and curse them in the lexilogio — the very Greek one.” — D. Mitropanos.

It is very Democratic- afterall.

I stood in prayer upon the ever shifting

cultivation of my civilized tears, my

heart drowning upon the gasps — of two

breaths, torn between two cities,

And my dreams drown between the

evening and the calling, of the

nights ambiguous verbosity,

My limbs there, my heart here

Alas, my dreams pay homage to the alms of

my deferring psalm

As I pluck at the tarred feathers set upon

my stone cold eyes,

arrested they fan my tears,

a dry residual accounting of the course

taken, my marbled oration,

charity, finely adorned, navigates through

the lividus display of my faults,

and generously chooses my least,

enthroning it above my corrections, the

greatest — forgiven,

EUREKA!, when I am right no one remembers,

when I am wrong no one forgets!

my mourning brows banter one with the

other, as to the weight of my unchosen exile,

As my tears carry the corpse of my soul,

through the seating arrangement —

my fault of choice, the burial of the least,

Unfashionably arranged, that the headless

horsemen converse with their decapitated

bridles,

in the vacuum — between the unglorified

field of the lyrically disabled

and the hero’s right to fall upon his sword

resurrecting the one tear, the greatest —

my courage to face

the fault I saw in you, my right brow

concedes to the duty of my left,

my fault, found in the embers of the tear

held in solitary confinement —

that escaped its insurrection, in the dreary

throne rooms of paper glass and paper

wars — paper never refused ink —

the bridge of my brow, furrows the lines of

our ethnic plight,

as the heads of our gods, cry upon the

shoulders, the barbarity of foreign soil,

watering the road home with the babble of

self righteous tongues,

twisted judicial law, the convenience to

believe our myth is their fairytale —

their thieving lies —

hoard my pnuemas right to my decorous burial,

amongst the pyre of my peers, my plot of land,

Beneath the metope of Zeus’s glaucos sky

my head searches for my lame torso as the

virgin, defrocked lies — yet still resplendent

in her gracile nudity, her beauty

historically

acclaimed — she flips her dignified — phantom finger

— !Aghhhh, Les goddems, Les goddems! —

Keep the finger, you’ll need it to fiddle your shrunken balls.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. April 2020. All Rights Reserved.