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Yannis Livadas


Three Poems


At the book-stand of La Manne, 90 Claude Bernard Street

This is an archive until it will cease to be.
A little cold under the elbows.
When every failure will be paying for drinks based on
The statistics which will celebrate its run first 
To the public opinion,
Will be forming a main power.
The clinging vines of the newsreel enclose us;
My concern a crust
Dunk into the tacit glare of the sun.
The wind blows away a postcard bearing the image
Of a harbor full of loaded mules.
The temporal timespan that turns towards me
Comes up against its defects.
A couple of rants.
The guided imperishability is growling for Pleiades.

The meaning as an unfortunate sense
Is exclusively


When I write I set time in its place.

If you see me fall asleep jog me
With your whole soul.
But now into the foreword
 Of this marvelous luck
I linger to a
Phenomenal and accountable patent.

Life’s identical
Nape reversed;
Above most
The halo as it wanes
Over the pores of a raging
Sky-high embrace.

The known
And unknown things
Between being alive
Or dead.
You live both undivided.

Time makes poetry
Superior than time:
Poetry proves life
Superior than itself.

Devil’s horn.

There is a muck
That discovers you.

I’ll be seeing you.

Place Bernard-Halpern

I never engaged in a battle in Ardennes
I proceed overnight along with wine
That receives its citizenship from the keyboard;
The rights of the funerary lists which keep adding
To the book of answers
Become all the more;
The despicable foments furthermore and;
What’s all there is;
Serving formidable works of literature
Vendettas which you inspired into skeptical societies
Where the virtue of the voice
Never dries off.
Essence burrows through the age of the children.
The reliefs of the snow occupy the music of the disappearing
Of the frictions.
On my back I never carried you saint
Because the jurors of faith are always corrupted.
Nearby the concentrated light of the kitchen hood 
I’ve wasted another sunrise
Writing while there’s
A certain residue –
The delusion that everything is
Erased since
My empty place in bed reveals
Some kind of alertness.
The time of the cosmos chimes within my temples
I teach you to say
Death is yet to be utilized
A grain of salt is precious, saltiness is worthless