Christodoulos Makris

Four Manifestos

1

A red rose
sends fragrance to rise
from my immaculate shirt.
Sunshine, delectable fare, exotic teas,
refine my mind.

2

Watching him
it’s as if I need local fact and links
or state sponsorship
to speak.
Rather, my words
roam; they find audience
in time.

3

We too have to eat
and shit, apply for credit
and promote ourselves
for a fuck. We get our kicks
from drink and trade,
gambling and cars.

4

I spill out of myself.
My body sags
and smells. I wipe their children’s mess
off the kitchen floor.
I’m occupied
with what occupies me.


Two Nudes

r.

She sleeps.
She is ethereal, escapes
from photographs
in filmy layers. A wisp
swathed in snow. The cold does not faze her, she
commands it. Water,
she craves it. She pervades it.
Watch it become ice, slumber
through time.

s.

Her hair is jet-black and pulled
back so tight her eyes arc
skywards. Her skin is taut and livid and
sparkles like wine. She is
streetwise. Her mouth is foul and her mind scythes
through jobs. She has energy
to burn. She storms
out of her clothes as if her bustling
presence can’t be checked.


Christodoulos Makris is the author of the collection Spitting Out the Mother Tongue (Wurm Press, 2011), the chapbook Round the Clock (Wurm Press, 2009) and the chapbook / artist’s book, Muses Walk (yes, but is it poetry, 2012). He lives in Dublin.