Katerina Gogou | Sui generis



Look how the streets disappear
amid people…
how the kiosks get cold
from the wet newspapers
the sky
how it is punctured by the wires
and the end of the sea
by the weight of the ships
how sad the forgotten umbrellas are
at the last bus
and the mistake of the one that got off
one stop too early
the clothes left in the laundry
and your shame
two years after you made money
and found out how to ask for it
how bit by bit
slowly, methodically
it twists us
to determine our stance on life
by the style of the chair.




With the head shattered
by the clamp of your haggling
at rush hour and against the current
I will light up a big fire
and there I will throw all the Marxist books
so that Myrto will never learn
the cause of my death. You can tell her
that I could not bear the spring or
that I crossed at a red light.
Yes. This is more believable.
At red. This is you should tell her.




White is the aryan race
the silence
the white cells
the cold
the snow
the white shirts of the doctors
the funeral blankets
These a bit roughly
for the restoration of the black.






That one over there
the specific person
had a specific life
with specific actions.
the specific society
for the specific purpose
condemned him
to a vague death.




I am stupid.
The people for various reasons
make various movements for various actions.
I see the good one.
I give them my money
my clothes and my toys
I do not care not having anything
quite the opposite. Otherwise
I would even feel ashamed.
The night before, so, during the storm
I went out in the weather
I wanted to tap dance on the asphalt
singing in the rain
I had seen that in times of old, people,
with their colourful umbrellas
were standing and looking at Gene Kelly, smiling.
Thus it was done.
The first one came with an iron rod
and hit me with momentum from behind, under the hair.
Then the next one raised my skirt
and kicked me with a pointy shoe
at the right oviduct I was pregnant and I fell down.
Then, the third one came and said: leave the girl alone
she is a good person and she is not at fault
Let me escort you home.

I thanked him. I opened with the key
and he ascended the stairs first.
He observed who else lives here
a kid and an old lady
he put off his underpants and said I will be sleeping here
to protect you.
He was a man who did not play in
singing in the rain
but who was pushing on a strip
those whose heads were aching from the panes.
Now he is pretending that he is sleeping and I that I am writing.
And when I say that I am stupid
it is so that maybe I will get used to this too,
to perceive it as good, I am very sorry
I love also the murderers I say what is life
what is death what is schizophrenica what is the judge
what is the informer what is sexual desire what is
a small card from a foreign country what is the argument
and what endurance, I must buy a big
blue umbrella full of holes, big enough for us all to fit under.





“…the body was lying face down, in parallel
it was united with the Vatican.
One hand bloodied, stretched, middle finger up at the PCI
and the other brandishing his genitals
to the art specialists.
The blood on his hair leeches
on the veiled homosexuality syndromes
of men all around the earth.
His face disfigured by the frames
of the class he denied
bruised volunteer of the ragged proletariat.
The fingers of his left hand
broken by socialist realism
thrown at floodlit garbage.
The jaw broken
by the uppercut of a worker syndicalist
and paid thug.
The ears half-eaten by scoundrel who did not get an erection.
The neck broken, detached from the body
on the basic principle of operating separately.
The mother everywhere.
That was the death of the communist and homosexual
PASOLINI, that every monday, wednesday and friday,
ridding a scooter was rushing to get the screenings
on time at the cinemas of Egaleo, Liverpool and,
above all, Ostia, bound with boxes of films
and impoverished neighbourhoods.
And the striped flag of poetry.                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Goodbye.


Translation : Dimitris Askitis
Forlaget Nemo


NOSTOS, 1990






Rotten. / Rotten themes / moldy volumes                                                                                                                                                        devious libraries
bootlicking words slave words / frame-up jobs
fraudulent words
our life here is a bull
a thousand little fascist knives stuck in him
he vomits black our own blood
and you go on painting still-lifes
and past-prime book editions making money for                                                                                                                                        the tourist office.
Political parties—punctuation marks
ecology—ancient forerunners show us the way
only on the reverse
the good ones are thrown in deep holes
the public works and illustrious signatures
pave with asphalt over them
a big round crate is the earth like a ballot-box
so we can throw our ballots in
whatever color the salamander takes
it’s always rightwing.
Some drab acacias have undertaken Spring
roots aren’t so that we may go back
roots are for generating branches
and if they don’t
they’re dead sticks firewood
roadblocks Forward Forward ever more!
That’s what is needed
from submission to an uprising
from either all or nobody
from either everything or nothing
and us / they let us in through the service door
we eat their left-overs standing
wearing on our neck as an old-fashion scarf
the dead cat of civilization
but now I’m no longer alone
I’ve made I have connections
I’m not afraid of anyone
I pretend I’m living this life while I’m preparing                                                                                                                                          the other one
in daytime high noon I’ll grab bucket and brushes
we’re going to tear the flagstones
I’ll make a great downpour of leaflets
incitement slogans
bullet-words on paper
letters out of skin and blood
our poetry’s psychosomatic—
no one of you is ever going to seperate us
even my very life
and anyone who dares let him come this way                                                                                                                                               hand grenade
with safety pin off.




The 4 point of the horizon
Above. Below. Right. Left.
Above, the sky and the things we aimed for.
— They come at night and mock us                                                                                                                                                                  in our dreams.
Below, the earth and things aiming at us
— they shovel dirt over us even before we’re done.
Right, tourist islands banks and rock
— offering us electroshock in the arms of                                                                                                                                                      Raquel Welch.
Left, the ghost of Russia driving a Mig-25
is chasing us with a big rubber stamp
— and we collect tiny bits of our perseverance
for the party verdicts at the Moscow Trials.
The neighborhood dime-store
to catch a breath
but even here I’ve got to pay
for the shopkeeper’s tolerance
an ex-cop selling the “People’s Struggle”
I don’t know what to buy so as not to be                                                                                                                                                         an accomplice. Understand?
The 4 points of the horizon
Dressed as banks pilots Marxists nurses
are chasing us. I have to make a call.
What’s the number?
Where can I stop and take a single breath?
They’ve set us up everywhere.
The corps trapped by the gun
women by their sex
Justice by the laws
organizations by their dissidents
doctors by electroshock.
Yes. Let’s go to the Ilion movie theater tonight.
There the heroes have red cheeks
and always win in the end.


Translation by Angelos Sakkis
Tripwire 14
Photomontages by P. Bouscheljong



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