Ex El Yea, a bilingual born in Greece. Writes in English, dreams in Scythian smoke and Mycenaean dust. Teacher, Sailor, Salesman, Punk. A biochemist-turned-consultant who walked off into a sunset of poverty. Made Seville howl his letra, London cry havoc! (Athens snubbed) Self-taught in all things urgent. Loves ghosts and lemon trees. Your ancestors are taking notes…
calcium-soft stones
olive-green blades
heat that you can see
sharp head-rocks
like the people’s pride
cut into the sea
donkey hooves
thyme and thistle
midday high
black-dressed women
like question marks
eyes pierce the sky
smell of brine
bumble bee
sweet inviting blue
expansive
seagulls rising
calling Thalassa!
Thalassa!
Red Sonja
like a cat in heat
you look at me—
your ripened lips
parted
licking
rubbing your thighs
like a cicada
two strangers without words
I look at you too—
I want to take you
from this rabble
into an alley
against a wall
or under sheets—
hotting bodies
I shove
my hand into my pocket
to hide my arousal
and drift away
to watch the band
to see if you’ll follow
I want you
to follow me
as I scan the stage—
and soon
I feel your body
rubbing mine
I turn
and take you
by the hand
through the doorway
through the midnight’s threshold
into the intoxication
of this endless
mediterranean
night
where the moon
overflows
Poetry in this post: © Ex El Yea
Published with the permission of Ex El Yea