BLOOD ON THE ROCKS

Copyrights Mikhail Mavrotheris

ISBN 978-9963-9899-9-7
First Edition 2013

Cover & Drawings by Mikhail Mavrotheris

Designed by Christina Kimoni
Colour Correction by Maria Chrysostomou

Printed by Theopress Ltd

Published by

48 Constantinou Palaiologou, 1015

P.O.Box 22831, 1524 Nicosia, Cyprus
T: +35722347797 F: +357 22495604
www.abookwormpublication.com

blood on the rocks

mikhail mavrotheris

night shift
some nights
a fine day in hell he finished
the puked
And here she comes.
Monday night.
I'll hit the road
walking the night
death lives on the asphalt
earlier that evening
in a tin bowl
outside this fuckin bar
I ha(r)d him
she listens
on the pavement (hey, let's dance)
when love's away on vacation
lame fuck evenings washed out on the beach
a sugarplum on the carpet
on the pavement (II): on me
and what happiness is I dunno
ask
a fine way to die
i'd like to fuck you
on the pavement (III): hush, darling
dolor lurks next to us
white paint on your hair
the black cat
in this city
when your life is a joke

burning in daylight
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
21
22-25
26-28
29
30
31
32
32-33
34
35
35
36
36
37
38-39

drunk lonely beautiful and marvelous

lifeless
I was young
your flesh
she lit a lucky strike
the reaSON i love Xanax more than U:
female/male
Neal Cassady (1926-1968)
I know
when you are bent
the rust of my life
shaved & clean
IT'S A WONDERFUL SUNNY DAY
enslaved freedom
do people think of you
hello queer
loneliness
nobody feels
drowned in the melted ice
hanging by some ramshackle balcony
some time
the first tear

41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61

and in the meantime the cat was smashed to

smithereens
enslaved
I do not hate you
some people
dream a dream stoned
the threnody of the clock
stepping on Lethe:
saw a dream
when this met that
on the counter
a dead cockroach
a nasty curse actually makes sense
STOPPED
cutting through the horizon
rain at last
the unloved & the loved one

63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77

to Damon Boykiw, for the life, the madness and for whatever has left
to Till Lindemann, for Messer
to Tom Waits, for keeping me alive, on the road and on the search.
to Christiana too; for some strange reasons of mine.

night shift

some nights, I unbutton my shirt and remove my heart from my chesti let it beat... (you know,
to... to do its shit; the only shit it can do anyways...) in my palm; its so fetid,
bloody... fuckin cold.
and then I dress it with a mango skin, and place it in the fridge until yesterday
in order to request the tomorrow next to yogurts, putrid green butters and milks... and I
finish by holding a glass with melted ice, watching the film on my wet window... I stare at
the cars lights going by, the night, and a watermelon filled with grease...
fuck man... its raining again... and I forgot the cars top, down... fuck it.
9

a fine day in hell

he finished his glass of scotch and ordered another one,
lit a smoke, gave a look to the blonde chick across the bar and then turned to the
guy sitting next to him and said:
and then... he laughed aloud, letting the smoke run down his nostrils
they killed us

and then it was the smoke, the streets bright lights and the scotch... and a man running
naked down the street with a couple inches of limp hanging among his legs, next to stray
cats messing in the trash... and among those hisses and screeches, he stopped, bent down
and puked... torn skin for the hogs.
11

for Chicliboom
After midnight and couple glasses of scotch theres not much to feed yourself. Some bread
and a can of sardines in salt water. I turn on the TV. Its a couple of white trash from
ol Dixie fighting about who cheated who, and who the fucks more loyal and who the fucks
more and more I walk to the fridge, take the sardines and open the can, spill the water in
the sink and take a piece of wheat bread from the counter.
And here she comes.
Walkin with her chubby hairy body. Shaking her tail, jumps on the couch next to me
and rubs her face on my legshe owns me. I give her one sardine and eat the rest with my
bear hands. We both finish our meal; I wipe the oil on my hands on my black pair of
trousers and lay on the couch. She climbs on my body and lies on my stomach, she meows,
and continues purring.
The couple on the TV seems to be fine now. Jerry Springer did some fine job too,
and everybodys happy for now.

Monday night. The bars empty. Just few regulars drinking and smoking. She stretched her left
leg and crossed the right one on top of it, and then she leaned her head on top of her two
crossed front legs.
It is as if nothing stands right anymore, but a blonde cat sleeping ON the stool next
to a drunk who just ordered another glass of sweet red wine: 13.5% vol.
13

Ill hit the road

of the bone
with a stiletto
in my coat
tonight theres no
moon
and somehow
some
where
some
body has to die
and dawn is nothing
but Miss Deaths
payoff.

walking the night

again tonight
inside you
wasted,
drunk
drowning the skies
in your eyes
your heavy
breathing
in the nebulous
mirror
naked

I
on your wet cotton sheets
as your fists
are tearing them along with ma flesh
apart.

15

death lives
while life
dies;
and gets unhappily
happy,
as the stars fall down on the floor, sparkling
like cigarettes thrown down
on the asphalt. the lights get so dark, and the murkiness gets
so much
darker that the whole thing starts to make some sense now
and then
milieu for oblivion.

earlier that evening

I saw her walkin
down
West Oakland;
alone,
wearing a fedora hat
& black rounded
sunglasses;
her lips were so
red
and succulent (I had that fantasy of sticking
something among them; my finger or
penis);
I watched her figure
vanishing in the
crowd,
dragged
a lungful
and sucked my glass of
vodka-7 and turned back on the screen;

Steelers got the game.

17

in the TV somebody had

to die, I dunno why, but
thats how the shit
flows, and the rain was falling
in a tin bowl
through the roof...
pass me the blunt,
he yelled from the other side
of the room;
so I did;
a rat crossed the room heading
for the kitchen, not
paying attention to any
of us in the hall or
the two guys fucking
in the kitchen; she felt
like home.

sitting next to a black man,

at Harvard,
in his mid-fifties that seems to wait
for death wearing a pink shirt (the kind
that used to be red once) and a pair of
stripped pants and
I stare at the rich Asians passing by
and the rich
spoiled
white American boys and
girls
who are to run what has left outside this fuckin bar:
they might be indeed
smart
as fuck; but I do
not
give a fuck;
I just want ma drink, ma loneliness, and a piece of paper to write.
the bartender walks over: another one, please
said I.
19

I ha(r)d him
talking of sex
in a fraternity party; he didnt really
like it
with his
current girl, so
he took
a load out
of a friend
of mine.
as for me?
not much happened, had
few more drinks
and a slender blonde
ha(r)d me
in her
then
we fall
asleep
in the bathtub .

she
listens
before she
listens;
that old lady
with the golden
canine, shes now
half way
through the bottle.

on the pavement
I saw you running behind
flying bottles and cigarettes;
murderer gods
gamessongs of the mass
a happy
dolor
(hey, lets dance)
21

when loves away on vacation

you walk out
in the nocturnal streets of some city and dont remember
where you parked; its cold
and windy.
so you get in the next bar
and order a glass of scotch,
its warm in there and smells
beer,
a lady comes and sits next to you,
shes nice;
red succulent lips, tight ass, long
legs and round pointed tits;
red-haired with sad
blue
eyes.
you buy her a drink, and she tells you
the story of her life; she offers
for free
the decades of boredom she has
been through.
the bartender is an ugly mothafucka
watching
jeopardy on a TV set from the 80s;
hes bald,

and quite
chubby,
clean shaved smelling old
spice smoking a cheap
cigar (you wont
tip himyou think; takes too long
for the next
round).
the red-haired
keeps goin on, now talkin
about her
ex and you walk straight
to the jukebox
pick a random
Tom Waits song
& Dylans
Senor; you get lost in drunk
says,
and to the lyrics and you feel you
own the world (and its only
2 am, deadly silence outside
in the street, not a single
car, just the cold, the
cats and the
wind)
but you really own

23

nothin
but lay-lies and your
drink.
well, youre broke at some point, so you leave
your last buck as a tip underneath
your glass,
kiss goodbye the red-haired &
walk out.
as you step out you see a cat
jumping off an iron
waste bin,
and then you remember that your car is parked
only a block away;
you get in the car, light a smoke and drive
while listening to
classical music thinking
that you should have been
dead
by nowbut you
aint,
and Strauss just knows
some serious
secret; some magic trick to drive the car itself.
at home youve got plenty of
scotch

and the next days off (love

too).
at home there must be something to
eat,
and probably few good
vinyls
that can hook you up
on the porch till
you pass
out.
25

lame fuck evenings

oh... men dont know she said,
what
a real
fuck is,
you just
stick it
in
& jerk your
fat
like fuckin dolphins
washed out
on
a beach
he lit a smoke and
sucked his glass, listening to her
sayin her
theory
feeling kinda little.

but you... she continued

youre kinda different
cause at least after
few glasses of
scotch
you never finish
so your boner
could be quite
helpful
when im on
top... but youre totally useless
in any other position
he poured some more
in his glass
without sayin
a wordthe ashtray on the table
was full of
cigarette butts and a gum
she used to chew
when they first
sat.

so he exclaimed youre sayin

that a man is not
a man of his word
but a man
of his
cock... thats
something to
rely my
existence
on
listen dickwad she said passing the smoke
back to him you like my
cunt
dont ya?

she shook her head

smiling, sipping
her wine, scissored
her fingers
indicating shed like
a whiff
from his smoke;
he gave her his cigarette
and she inhaled
a lungful
puffing out the smoke
towards his face

yea... well...
I guess
it is fine
just fine?
ehm... exquisite?
care for
eating
it, dipshit?
jeez Jess, what the fuck...
27

silence. they finished their

drinks without having a
say, paid
and left. later that evening
they went to her place,
she offered him
beer and
strawberries her
father brought from
the village
and raw celery
that he liked quite a lot to chew
with his beer and they tried to watch
a filmhe was in that
mood, but apparently she
wasnt. she kissed him
on the cheek
like an innocent
high-school chick
in her first
time, he touched with his palm
her cheek and turned her
head to his and
kissed her on the lips,
very slowly he
bent her
down the couch

and started making out,

he unzipped his pants and
stuck it in
and jerked his fat
like a dolphin (or like
any other fish)
washed out
on the beach;
her cunt was tight,
trimmed
& warm and the films
music was
romantic & she
finished
before him
indeed.

few broken arrows

and dried blood
on your
chest,
a sugarplum on the carpet
hair glued on
it,
a glass of scotch on the desk
with a fly
drowned
in
the melted ice,
an ashtray full
of cigarette
butts and a well-rolled blunt,
a flowerpot and its wizened
cactus &
its thirsty
clod,
a decaying
corpse in the corner
of the room;
the killers
gone

29

and you
languid
laying on
the
floor.

on the pavement (II)

I saw a woman in flames falling down an apartment building
howling
I made
a wish before she landed on the pavement
then I filled a bucket with water
and poured it
on me.

and what happiness

is
I dunno;
im mostly
lost
in thoughts
about
trees, and kisses
that were never
given,
sometimes about
last nights
intoxication
and wilderness
of the flesh.
the other night
they gave me
a ride
home, I entered alone and sat on the desk
and listened to
music
then cried
and
cried

31

perhaps all we need

is jazz n
blues,
tom waits,
devendra banhart
and plenty of
poetry
and the wine
glass
left underneath
the cars seat (taken
from a party, I cannot
recall)
that ding-dongs
ever time
I take
a turn.

ask
the
the
the
the
the
the
the
the
the

sun
cats
tears
gaze
poem
clock
banjo
poet
book
ask
everything
and everybody

theyll all
hoOOOOwl;
the world
has failed
us
and love is
bleeding
in a glass of scotch.

I was thinking
a fine way
to die
and I couldnt find
anything
significant;
dying when is not instant,
its kinda
lame and perhaps
inconvenient
to
certain
people
associated
with you
when it comes to feel your last breaths
as you lay on a hospitals white
bed.

so I remained
alive
and went
to bars listening
to others
telling their problems
and talking on
economy
and how some guy
fucked another guys
wife,
and how everythings
wrong
and the worlds
messy
and how poets
ended up
losing
poetry while
gaining
emptiness
yea
I remained alive
accidentally.

33

some other times

somebody comes
next to me and whispers
youre still alive,
how so?
and then I buy him
a drink
get him drunk
and tell him
that his watch is in
rush
and he asks
me why the water
can never sink
in
water.
by the moment I get drunk too
I realize how
useless
life can
get

id like to fuck you

she said,
I laughed,
finished my drink,
lit a smoke & stood up,
fine ashtray I said and
walked out
it was a good bar
with lovely
low
lighting

on the pavement (III)

I saw
a shape
(all over
the bar; stagnated
in every glass)
very carefully
shaped
but
had no shape;

our hearts
are full of money
and our pockets
keep the blood
on the rocks

hush, darling.

dolor lurks
next to
us,
sitting with the legs
crossed
on the stool,
sipping
scotch,
smokes
and coughs
without saying
a word;
so
taciturn.
35

for A. Z.
for christiana zenonos
at night
the taste of tequila
on your lips (perhaps
zivaniaI dunno)
got me so drunk
that I sucked
them
tenaciously.
and in the morning
next
to you,
you seemed
like a
sculpture (an ancient
with white
paint
on few of your
hair.

the black cat

crossed the street;
she was alone
and proud,
scared
and
free,
her tail jerking
and
waving
on the thick fog
of the
summer night.
one)
a car ran over
her;
now shes soulless
and smashed
like the orange you stepped
over the other
day
and still
seems
free.

in this city that smells bad quality of weed and extravagant junk, a city that is elapsed by
rusty luxurious unshaven filthy cunts, which is besmirched by the cleanness of a sold out
ethos; death lives, and life dies seated in cheap bars and cafes full of rigmarole.
in a happily pathetic life... where stars fall without anyone noticing them, and the
glitter elements of happiness spark on the asphalt like the cigarettes that hit with power
the cement... the lights blacken so fast, and darkness is dressed on intense colors.
make a wish. the waysides was always a place to totter... dont make a wish... just
because theres always a chance to get enslaved in a clan of unfulfilled wishes...
Love me two times... on the speakers... finishing the first bottle; the whole world
is a bottle behind... you light a smoke... the first kiss, by a chick sitting next to you.
you met her about an hour ago and you cannot recall her name, her lips are juicy...
aha-ha-ha, I love ya too... oh yea, ya, ya, more than ever... like never before... like a
memory that gets old when our roads split and the first facing that affects the airs of a
young man,
in the sanctum of a faded glance.

37

for s. & stavros lambrakis

when your life
is a
joke, you
hangout all alone
and you laugh
with the dump
jokes
of others
just to get a smile
or a
howdy
lonely stranger?
alone at the
bar
sometimesmost of the
times
they pity
you...
unloved, listening
to some tunes
that dont even
play
at the time,

and you
probably drunk
almost
shitfaced,
day dreaming
the moment youll hit
some
big time.
you order
another one,
you shake the glass
staring at the
ice cubes
in the
scotch
and of course
at some point
things
get out of
hand
and its right then
that you become
the story
in the others
miserable decorous lives,
the story thats to come

right
next morning
in the cafe;
youre a laughable
stroke
in a white
canvas.
eventually gods bow
to your magnificent show;
they know that really love
belongs
to everybody
and they smile to the
fucked &
eventually somehow
in the most
unsuspected places
they introduce you to the
most
groovy
amazing
people.

39

burning in daylight

for Stella C.
its morning
& drunk I sit on the chair
staring at the plant
exactly
across me,
oh youre young
and lonely
and beautiful
and marvelous in any
aspect.

no one
cares about
ya,
41

please sometime
come
on the boat
to see me,
to lie
with
me,
to die
next to me;
its all
a moment
served on the table
la
carte

a tree
a mountain
a deer
a glass
of
scotch
a poem.
all life
less
and too young to get
seen
or felt
by a
man
whos
nothing but
a fish
wriggling
on the saddle
of a rusty
bike.

I was young
and she was older
and so
beautiful
and she let me
lay
next to her,
her nipples
erected
her mouth so
wet
her hair
so
soft,
her flesh like
satin
her cunt shaved and
so warm.

I woke up
naked
next to her
dry
hangover
empty
reeking of scotch
& tar
hit by
the sunbeams,
wounded
and lonely
I tried to
touch her
and she
vanished
I remained on the
mussy sheets
for a while
staring at
a rammones poster
and thought of me
as a teenager
with acne
and long hair

smiled at
joey and dee dee and all the rest of the punks
standing
for my youth
feeling as I was left
alone
and I was something so
machine-like
made for somebodys else
purpose,
I walked in the bathroom
shaved
washed ma teeth
I lit a smoke and had some
fine
coffee
I opened the door and left
for work
my
sun & my car
was still out there

43

your flesh
is something
id like to tear
apart
in a moment of
passion
your scent moves
in the room
as you
shower
(the condom stills
on ma cock)
youre happy
singing
and im just bored
petting the
cat;
she purrs
jerking
her tail,
and your home
is the cave
I always try
to escape from

and the shadows keep

dancing

she lit a Lucky Strike

and ordered a cup of double espresso,
opened a book and started reading
she was wearing
sunglasses with pink lenses
I walked towards her and asked for a smoke
and said: Yeah sure,
NO so I walked away
and waited for my
coffee

45

the reaSON

i love Xanax more than U:

Emergency exit somewhere in the edge of time; entrance in the silence of the shy mind
and permanent escape from a setup ugliness, and a really enough warm coat for the cold
nights of the others endless aestival winter; the whole world can go to hell now. Thanks.

female/male
for Damon Boykiw
ah theres a turtle
its a dog you dumb-ass
then why does it snow in the summer?
because it is incumbent upon the when of some since that eavesdrop an as far that
drinks in the very same cafe next to three whereas
huh?
a star just fell
you think its gonna barge into us?
nah... perhaps the wishes it carries
have you ever seen how words are gettin dressed before a levee
oh yea, like the ashes in the mud

47

Neal Cassady (1926-1968)

-I search for healthy humans
-what ya mean ma boy?
-humans with escape tendencies
-aaaah... uh-huh. im sorry, young man, theyre currently out of stock
-thats... so sad
-but we have some normal faces in the glass jar over there

I know plenty of days

which were to come
but had stumbled in the night
and I was finding them all next to trash
cans
along with empty syringes
and bottles
STARING astonished
at the naked walls
and the bombarded pavement
and no one
would stand them
so the cats would suck
and clean their wounds
and keep them
warm;
then Id pile them all
in the back seat of my car
and let them sleep
with me
on my bed
till the morning
where a sun
would take them away
from me
49

when you are

bent
among my legs
and I lay back
on your bed
its not because
you are a perfect user
of your lips, teeth & tongue
that I sigh
but you see, its the feeling of your hair
on my flesh
that irritates me
perhaps the smell of the naphthalene
on your sheets.
a cup of green tea
steaming
in front of the black
TV screen,
a cigarette among
the dry
lips & a
chunk of broccoli in a dish
wherein I try
to hide
the rust
of my life.

shaved & clean

at the bus
stationI dunno
whyi could
be at a bar or
to that place
called
home
reading a book or even
writing one, instead
Im here;
smoking
& farting
& waiting
for the bus &
this mutton dressed as an old lady
next to me
reeks of
fried chicken.

51

ITS A WONDERFUL SUNNY DAY

SMELLING SPRING,
THE SNOW MELTED
AND YOU
ARE LONELY
sitting at the caf reading Whitman; YOUR EYES
REFLECT
THE SEA.

your enslaved
freedom
boils inside that pimple on your
forehead,
underneath
your make-up.

53

do people think of you

when you think
of them?
NO,
but wait, dont take me
seriously, im just telling this
tryin
to convince myself
not
you
well, im shy and once
I used to believe that
shy people
can never show who they
could be and
that theyre never meant to be
who they
is
and I grew up quite
fast

and now im thinking of some of

you
and probably, I dont even like any of
you
cause weve never met
in any close way of touching
the hands
or the lips,
or the cheeks

well, and then, I started

sharing
drinks
and everything was gone
and I was like free of
fee

I dont even really know

you
and well, I can now say how
im in love
when
im not

hello queer
gimme
a tear
every time you
stay
alone in the dark room
with the Jim Morrison
poster
& Kerouacs On the Road wide open
on the bed
listening your
mom
calling you
for
lunch.

55

loneliness
walks hand in hand
with the wrinkles
of your face,
the sorrowful
gaze
after a hangover
it is the sugar
in the morning
coffee
and the salt
kids
pour over
slugs;
it burns you
that way
as you flinch
on the balcony
and the clouds
keep moving
slow;
the sky turns
to be dull;

the birds are always in

rush

nobody feels
the state
of not
feeling
and thats
something
most people
forgot
as they remain
locked
in the car
during
rush hour
and
work;

mmm
theyre emotional
ooohhh Im so but
SO
jealous.

57

theres a coin
on
the carpet;
a dollar
from some other
days,
a glass next to
the laptop
& a dead mosquito;
drowned in the melted
ice.
and its sunny outside
and the breeze
pets the leaves of the trees.
I play some classical music
on the pick-up
and lean back, I need a shave
but
perhaps Ill get shaved
later.

but
what do
they take
photos of?
what do they
see,
I dont?
ah, I know...
all they see
is themselves hanging
by some
ramshackle
balcony
& its still
nothin
but
a gray
afternoon.

59

some time
when I was on the
run
with D.
and our car broke down,
somewhere in Ohio,
we started
drinking beer
and eating raw cabbage
inside the car.
the roof was
down and the
clouds were moving
in strange
shapes;
he put his arms
around
ma shoulders
and said:
oh man,
thats the most
wonderful thing that could happen
to us.

and we stared
at the sky
for about
an hour.
then it started
raining.

for Cacao Rocks

give up
your
prey
a i NY
t-sHirt
and a rolled
smoke
wedged in your
mouth...
the first
tear
running down
your
cheek
fuck it man, give me a xanax
and a madman
who can show me
the way
cause the smoke
is thick
and burns ma
eyes

strange days
or
strange
personas?
persona gratas?
or peronas non
gratas?
61

and in the meantime the cat was smashed to

smithereens

enslaved
are the buried
ones, the needs, and the
desires
free
are still the waves, and the scent
of the brine
that covers your flesh and your beard;
free
are the burned
and drownedthe ashes

in the wind.

63

I do not hate you

I hate
your love
[not

you].

some
people
are
so
fucked
&
lived
nothing
at
all
that
they
remain
enslaved...
hanged
by
a
tree;
they
call
themselves

naturalists.

65

dream
a
dream
&
fear
a
fear;
but
why
to

try

get
a stone,
stoned;
aint
it

already?

the threnody of the clock

for chauna craig
those birds would
simply
fly &
fly
& fly
while others would
swim
through
the silence
of
a flyin
freedom.

67

stepping on Lethe:
a puddle
on the asphalt
of a
city
drowned
in
noise
kissed by
the steps
of lithe figures
goin
to work.

saw a dream;
it was you
dreaming.

69

when this met

that
it became
this
too.

my paths
are
soaking
in a
glass
of
scotch
next to
a
bottle of
fear &
tolerance
on the very same
counter.

71

a dead cockroach
by the edge
of the door:
has she
ever
been
loved?

you think
that being
alone
is a nasty
curse, or
perhaps a prob,
but actually
it all makes sense
when you
think you ought
to love and
you cant, and especially
when you like
a person
you
do not like.

73

time
running through
your veins;
the clock on
the wall
a god died the
other night,
broke
outside a bar,
laying on a bench
freezing
until his
heart
STOPPED.

a clocks
festinate
indexes
and
a car
moving
down the
road
cutting
through the
horizon.

75

rain at last__
listening, again,
before
you even listen__
|a shape
precisely
very shaped
has to
shape
{suck me}

the unloved bedraggled bastard, they called him,

stands in the market
selling shit,
he cleans your house & cars,
takes your dogs to take
a shit,
he distributes your mail,
serves your coffee & beer,
wipes your ass,
sucks your filthy trimmed cunt like no
other,
carries your shopping bags,
he mows your loan,
& paints your walls,
he places bets on football
games,
and he drinks whiskey
in the pubs
smoking rolling cigarettes,
and sometimes fucks your wet girls and wives
when you remain locked
in the office;
hes a factotum and a poet
half way
the bottle.

the loved one is already

sold
and wrapped
in brown paper bag
theres a thumbtack clinched in your
eye.

77

mikhail mavrotheris was born in Nicosia, Cyprus. in 2010 he published

his first book of poetry, thanatography.
one day
he hopes
to learn to play
the banjo.
currently he practices intoxication and howling next to cats.

...the poets gone and the cats purring.