The Traveller by Afrodykie

O is for … Oops … and P is for … Plateia
YES, you don’t post Wednesday’s blog, oh oh oh oh dear.
You do try though, to write it, sitting on a step in Mytiline, your feet on the pavement, your back against a glass door.
The motorbikes race by, and the words stick somewhere you don’t know where.
The trip to the harbour city, Lesvos island’s capital, is cacophonous and cruel.
It’s a jolting journey into mayhem.
Chaos. Bustle bustle. The tarmac bites your feet. It swallows your soul.
Up and down. Shopping. Waiting. You sweat in silence.
The pollution, the gypsies ragged and menacing, they trawl the car park, their long fingers itch — itch to crawl into crime any crime they can grab and devour.
Their eyes burn bright in dark faces, eyes that flit from side to side, even the children’s eyes slide quick non-stop into a perpetual seeking seeking.
Unkempt hair, matted rods of dry neglect, they poke the heat.
You carry your computer in a rucksack. Scared.
A rent-boy emerges from the morass and slings a bag over his shoulder.
His hair is neat, coiffured into a catwalk style.
The brand on his underpants peeps over the belt of his fashionable shorts.
He strides determined focused to his job.
Shirtless is good in the body business. He doesn’t look back. Not once.
You prefer the village, your village, Eressos.
Where the plateia, the square, it offers generous respite.
You’re sitting there. You get a whiff of the sea.
That’s unusual, 4km from the ocean.
You turn around and see a big bag of round sea urchins, their black spikes protrude, a halo of danger if you’re not careful.
There are about five men at a table, at Kafene.
Maria, they shout, and Maria brings ouzo in little bottles, and bread in a basket.
They slice off a third of the needled shell with a kind of clamp, a silver tool.
It smoothly executes the animal, the sea hedgehog.
Then they wipe out the orange pink strands of the star shaped flesh inside the glistening light-striped shell.
They capture the meat with the bread, or a finger that removes it all in a twirl.
One of them pours the juice of the creatures into his palm, to slurp the aphrodisiac.
You want to try, one man asks.
You eat five, ten of these and two men won’t be enough for you.
You wish!
The plateia.
You go there when your transport to collect your desks falls through.
Two men at Portakali help you.
One, two, three.
They organise a car and helpers and within an hour you have a comprehensive work space at home.
The plateia is like that, the networking nub of the village.
It lights up at night, magic under the huge plane trees. It twinkles.
Vento your hunting dog loves going there too.
She runs around and wags her tail and gets bones and food from the people at the tables.
She likes Sam’s. That’s her favourite place.
You’ve written your telephone number on her collar, just in case.
But nobody phones anymore. She’s part of the plateia now, your Vento, the wind of your heart.

The Traveller by Afrodykie

The Traveller by Afrodykie
N is for … Nice
IT’S for nipples too, those twin towers of titillation, the edifices of the erotic.
They give a point to a breast and remind you of a story from the 80s.
There you were having an affair with a married woman who’d recently given birth.
She had a nice bed, one of those four poster things, and lived in a house with big sash windows and creaking wooden floors.
The passage was a long one, thank God.
And the front door at the one end of it was a monster, huge.
In its swathes of wood there was a lock.
It needed a six-inch key to be jiggled around in it, before it would open.
For this you are eternally grateful.
She made sure it was securely shut, and unbuttoned her blouse.
She winked at you, and giggled.
Her husband was at work. The baby was gurgling dreams in his cot.
We looked at each other, but not for too long.
Clothes flew, like popcorn jumping from a pot.
It was a great opportunity for some rumpy-pumpy, yes it was, on the ample marital mattress.
The baby didn’t budge but boy, did we sweat the fuck fandango.
Her breasts were sensitive, all that feeding.
No chance to tweak them, or to roll them between your fingers.
Nipping and nibbling? NO!
Suck them, she gasped, and stroked you hair.
Her hands anchored your head and your lips, your murmuring mouth, it clasped her teats, again and again.
It was sublime, that mother’s milk. Tasty, sweet.
You nearly said mama but a key rattled in the door.
You jumped out of bed and grabbed your clothes. The milk ran down your chin.
Your underwear hung from your hand.
You reached for the window and it went whoosh — just as the door banged open onto the wall.
You tiptoed, a love thief, down the side of the house, outside.
Your heart raced as you clambered over the garden fence and scoured the pavements for a witness.
You hadn’t said goodbye.
So what?
Hubby liked to work a lot!

The Traveller by Afrodykie

M is for … mmmmmm
THERE is a lot that makes you go mmmmmm.
You can’t help it.
Blue night moon rise, stars shadow brown eyes.
Pink slinks across the sky. Ah.
There’s oily water, with people in it, splashing or floating about.
The round ripples grow, bob, fade.
The life of ripples is short. Even in the Kalloni Gulf.
They sink without a sound, embrace deep eternity; they melt into the warm depths then disappear.
You’d never know they’d lived, if you hadn’t seen them.
She orders for you, in Greek.
What’s going on?
It’s those things you like, she says.
You limp across the wet tiles to choose your fish.
Your toe hurts, the big one on the left foot.
A brick smashed into it – a huge brick — from a dizzy height. It split the skin, and bruised or broke the bone.
You don’t know.
The music is loud. Some men are swirling around broken plates, bending forward.
Their arms wave in their air behind them.
Octopus arms it seems, floating in a sea of culture.
Some lovers, in the distance, they face each other.
Their big stomachs touch as they stand, feet secured in the sand.
You can hear their hearts aflutter, you feel their lips burst with promise.
Gosh, there’s the arrow of desire aiming for a kiss.
The meal is tasty and plentiful, shared.
The fresh oysters (that’s what you like, she knows) they wince when you squirt lemon juice on them.
Little oysters in scallop shells, the shells you collect.
You want to put them on the wooden window frames you two found at the stinky rubbish bins, beautiful in the sunset of a Sunday.
She encourages you to be creative.
And you like that.
Today your toe is sore, and you feel tired.
You want to lie down.
The cleaner must come so you can rest on your pillow and know.
Love can last forever in a memory.

The Traveller by Afrodykie

L is for … Love
THE songs make you feel as if you could fall at her feet, hug her legs and put your face in her … her knees.
Why you thought of knees, heaven knows…
Maybe because its hands knees then the boompsie daisy!
Never mind.
Here is a compendium of some of your work about love.
Look up at the tree
Its branches full of leaves
Do you think it worries
It’s bending in the breeze
It’s succoured in the centre
Where truth will rest its head
It’s best, it says, to blow about
Than to live sore, half dead
It doesn’t strive for reason
It has no dread to trounce
The tree breathes its mysteries
Subtle and sure, its glories mount
Its heart it does not flounder
In the eye of wicked storm
It’s succoured in the centre
Where true true love is born

Wretched heart
Replays moments
Tender torn
Tears flood wounds
Gaping wounds
Puke pain
Sickly sorrows
Claw me cry
My heart
A desert
Bleak and baleful
Stinging sands
Please Bury
My doleful, my dreadful aching desire

Maelstrom madness
Sinks sweet heart
Love shaken
Depth for Chains
Wings clipped frightened bird
Soars sinks
Broken dreams
Nothing where you once were

I’m thinking that love is not about absolutes eg: we are made for each other.
It’s about nuance.
And if it were about absolutes marriage would be a thing that lasts forever.
And that’s where I think a lot of marriages go wrong: absolutely.
Nuance allows for growth, reaching out, drawing back.
It’s elegant, and sound.
It’s confident. Warm. Loving.
It’s mature. It ripens. Love ripens, darling, slowly.
Yes, I submit without guarantees, to the sound in my heart.
I believe in love, for love’s sake, a beautiful burgeoning.
I hold it close to me, treasure it; this little thing.
It draws my gentless, weeping, terrified as it manifests, a glorious brave love; all-encompassing.
A deep deep love stirs within.
You don’t want to lose your heart in vain. You don’t want to lose your heart to pain.
And nor do I, my darling. We do it to gain.

Jet black eyebrows burn
Streams of sunlight on your neck
Your red lips smoulder

It runs away, fast
Love on its wobbly last legs
It musn’t look back

Sea sore
Silk soft soft
Touch me
Touch tender touch
Your lips hint
of jasmine stars
and mint
fresh mint
dances on your tongue

UNREQUITED love… Before you all start sobbing into your handkerchiefs, and dabbing your tear-puffed eyes with the pointed edge of your sodden hanky, let me tell you this:
Some people estimate that 98 percent of living human beings have had the devilish door of unrequited love slammed in their sunshine faces.
This means you too are likely to have experienced the frustration of an unreciprocated passion.
You know what it’s like to live with those pesky feelings, those relentless upstarts Churn and Yearn. The little tykes, they bounce like popcorn in a hot pot, ready to blast off your lid of resolve; shatter your rational will to forget, to get over it.
No matter what you do, Churn and Yearn, they smirk their rude grins.
They elicit grief, the tyrants!
But Mother Time’s not taking any nonsense from those brats.
She’s there, the great healer, ready to slap them down.
Try telling that to Heathcliff and Catherine though, in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.
This magnificent novel of unrequited love joins many other books, songs, poems and operas in its eloquent elucidation of the pain and torment of a clamped heart.
Of course, unrequited love is also something to be lampooned, because it’s so maddeningly universal and ubiquitous, the cruel joker in this pack called Life.
Happily, I am not alone.