Saturday, June 22, 2019

Poems By Giorgia Stavropoulou

Giorgia Stavropoulou is a poet, writer of absurdist fiction and a former clinical psychotherapist trained in systems theory and Lacanian psychoanalysis. She was born in Athens, Greece but raised in a bilingual home in multilingual Belgium, and now lives in Southern California. Her work has appeared in City (Journal of South Asian Literature), Journey Curves Anthology 1: writers reading in Athens, Zombie-Logic, Out-of-Print magazine, Clockwise Cat and Entropy. She also holds postgraduate degrees in Anthropology, South-Asian languages and literatures and Creative Writing (Manchester Metropolitan University).

hurricanes of fire

under the sleepless
black soil
of the pacific ocean

a spur
puffing itself up

by your dead heart
beating in
arrhythmic rocks


dwelling in alchemical lakes
of cobalt & amphibian 

in these dead waters
aquatic flames
of frozen fire
thinking themselves more alive
like unborn placenta
they want to form a human hand
they want reach out of the dark
in black lotus movements
ploughing through pale or
nostalgic corals

picture submarines at full speed
or fighter jets circling above gigantic tremors of salt
there are warships moving full speed ahead in the pacific 

their mission?
to inspect 
dwarf suns
being born
at 36 000 under
from a womb of archaic fire

accompanied by
seventy-seven underwater 

with turquoise-lightening sparking off in murdered water
and vibrations encapsulating the whales of regret

yes it thunders 
my friend 
deep down in the pacific ocean

isn’t your floor trembling and shaking?
hasn’t water told you
how exhausted it really is?

sea salt is plotting its next step

but don't worry
just take another sip
from your cocktail
at manhattan beach
while you still can

at your horizon

the polymorph perverse
hurricanes of fire began their ritual eruption
swallowing the disheveled pigeons of desire 
blurring the neat divisions
between above and below

you know

there’s a demon
inside you


to rearrange  
your plastic organs 

only $2.50 


an ant colony of shades of brown

in banaras

at the shores of the holy ganges

where corpses are crisp

and human ashes are mistaken for the heavens

an american breakfast is only $2.50

the view you get for free

bon appetite

no need to tip 

in black city’s invisible auschwitz

in black city’s

invisible auschwitz

i meet the angel of death

about to execute jazz music

my eyelashes adorned

with electroshocks

and my legs open:

clitoris erect

i sit like a real man

my corpse marching  

on whole notes

and half notes

when prison guards


behead themselves

with samurai swords

and sound waves

attach themselves

onto my silicon skin

like termites

wriggling melodically

into my pubic hair

when my liver

escorts improvisation

to resurrect itself

when that happens

mermaids armed with condoms

and automatic rifles

will swim through the soft music

of city lights

staring at burning butchers

and all suns will

hold their breath

while the color red

sets foot again

in black buildings

and giant spiders

will menstruate on my hands

female robots

will burst out

in loud laughter

their silver teeth dancing

in bordeaux blue ecstasy

(hysteria gone overboard)

till the butchers

are finally buried

then the sirens will

piss out of joy

on their graves

and bob kaufman

will recite seven of

his jail poems

in black city’s

invisible auschwitz

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