By | 1 November 2019

The graffiti furnishes
an apparition of manacles,
the metropolitan kapetanios,
a heritage of desertion to the mountains.

Here the enfilade
gurgled in attic bodies,
the Nazi tirade dislodged
for the Commonwealth titter.

Here the disciplined stance
scoffed at outstretched arms
and the emancipatory partisan
stood with effete vultures.

The memories of Ventimiglia
still stir in the cafés of Exarchia,
and the andartes’ tongues still click
in the boiling migrant camps.

Some distant conspiracy
still runs its fingers
through the hair of the Voulí,
and, colonel or commissioner,
eats the entrails
of the uprooted.

Little will allay it.
An agon of laudanum
curls the mountain’s haunts
into a clarion of graffiti.

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