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“Zervas lifted an arm weakly and placed it on a large book next to him. ¡I have a confession.¢ he stated weakly.¡I am not the bard I pretend to be.¢”
From Black-Eyed Blonde (futuristic internet novel)


For a blind world

Of sucking sounds

Smacking lips

Angry hisses

Blowing away

A useless sky

Sanskrit epitaph

So many words

All dead

Salute the sky


Trying to keep life


From death


To keep death



To create Life



To keep life


From no Life

From dead



To Edgar William Shakespoe

O, little room of poems
Word Closet of delightful dreams!

Taps and faucets leaking sunset

Sparkling bright o¢er bowl and sink!

Yet, inside this steamy silence

Sealed away from mortal love,

Echoing the woes of angels

Painted under porcelain coves,

Deep inside this hall of mirrors

In this crypt of running verse,

Grows a feeble gruesome sight,

Fully wrapped in paper white;

T¢is the embryo of sonnet,

Abstruse excrement of mind.

(fecit Yannis Zervas)

Time Still

He had stopped

Years ago

(Fifty million of them perhaps

Or just

One day)


marked time



(I was listening attentively

to him

reformatting the past)

klickety clack clckclck clck klickety clack clckclck clck klickety clack
clckclck clck klickety clack clckclck

(He remembered in such a way

that all seemed forgotten

as he reshaped the past to fit

his nostalgia)

clickety clackclckclck clickety clackclckclck clickety clackclckclck clickety
clackclckclck clickety clackclckclack

On translating a greek column

Half-broken                                          Broken

Leaning                                                Leaning

Unburying                                             Burying

Words                                                 Words

Half-dead                                             Undead


Right. Left. Right.

His eyes fixed

On the pendulum

Like a tennis match.

His head cupped in his hands

His elbows mounted on the table

His chair nailed to the floor

Over the floor below

Fixed on another floor

Built on foundations

Of ruins unexplored

Of ancient cities

Buried inside other cities

Layers upon layers of fossil

Down to the dense centre of the earth

Enflamed, revolving

Among nebulae and galaxies

Wedged deep into the universe

Yet, he is always there.

Only his gaze travels.

Right. Left. Over again.

Patient, in minor orbit,

Longing for the centre

That he cannot see.