Matina Stamatakis

January - March 2007
eleven new works from Matina Stamatakis, New York

[11 Mar 2007 | Sunday]

 Metamorphosis

      swabbed larvae & chrysalis
          pearl ends vanish into skin
            crumbled moon and navel
                            in

always the product of an apparition's remains
        [I want to feel flighty in these veins
                  & cocoon the remnants
            of space, light, wind, echo,

      symmetry & us]

              suctioned together before
                  the surfacing imago.

 
 
 
[06 Mar 2007 | Tuesday]

 Delphi, Your Fire

We argue about common myths,
all the while I'm growing fatter. You, balder--
yet we both agree we look good cloaked
under dim lights with the blinds skirted down,
inhibitions hemmed about our battered ankles--
the remaining imprints of shackles.

I will extinguish my fires
if you, in turn, extinguish yours.

                  What a liar.

An exclamation I mutter into the silken
conch of my pillow, impatiently waiting
for it to echo back

you fool! Don't speak
so bitterly--

chastising and belligerent
like my mother.

 

I remember she used to call me
her womb-fish, but I always preferred
to swim in the gutters.

 
 
 
[04 Mar 2007 | Sunday]

 Scenes

i

The final episode of life plays out
of a plasma TV. A Mitochondria of pixels
self-replicate for the world to see
in sea green, mucus yellow, blood clot red.
The organic orange of a nuclear meltdown.

                  Ashes to the wind.

ii

When the word is out, our mastectomies
will happen simultaneously--under the knife,
little dominoes tumble, tumble down
the gutters of war-torn streets.

A row of lights flicker on/off--

               di-dah-dah
                  di-dah
                di-dah-dit

as spastic Morse code of shrunken heads.

That one was a farmer. This one was a stockbroker.
This one was a ballerina. That one used to live
in China.

iii

In the fuselage of a shell-shocked flat, an infant
gums the tit of his mother a bit too hard.

She bleeds out sea anemones, residue
of scar tissue. The delicacy of peace
she once knew also trickles with it.

iv

The birds have pecked away at the loose
collectania of our dilated pupils--
nerve damage. At last.

 
 
 
[27 Feb 2007 | Tuesday]

 Dissecting H

Window: light is to wake
mattress-heavy eyelids

            this luscious phosphore
peeks through a grand crescendo
                of buzzing

                              flies,

               the prophecies of
            Hopi Hummingbirds,

                    condors--

evidence of two disjointed thickets of deep--
beneath this flighty coronation: H/E/R/

E/nergetic
nude
warm

Halcyon: the marvels of landscape penumbras, partial

              to shadow-pressed illumination,
an enraptured invocation over stretches of flattened sun.

A wing flutters by, clunky dirigible soars,

                insects, nettles
        night thrown about fickle,
engorged by a monstrous field of lips--

H                 E                R:

       E                        R                       E

 

lays an autumnal blanket of moss.
A stomach impregnated by: glass, slick--

not shatter-proof--the grandiose anatomy
               of [within] Houses.

 
 
 
[11 Feb 2007 | Sunday]

 Halo 18

*

Fore venom beacon panorama sloughs
its ultraviolet hold through

arms' jellied tentacles
smoothing gestures out out--away

*

forgotten is a face stretched

      snug over body--
    its cinch molding into

*

so much of day passes
          through the shutters

*

undetected

 
 
 
[06 Feb 2007 | Tuesday]

 Haibun: The Chongdong Misfits

I

Yin: Fish
Yin: Worm

The Jesuits have taken over South Korea. Kim is scared. Orchid firecrackers of Hell. The first war-cry of violence is athank you, Christ. At home, Catherine decides to paint her face with a freshly torn virginal hymen--she says it's better than strawberry dye. It lasts longer, but it smells like shit after a while. Later on in the evening, Kim peacock struts in her new elephantiasis leggings while Catherine tugs at the fresh umbilical cord dangling between her legs. This means war. The first battle cry flings allantois into the air. The second, a ripe banana is peeled of its jaundiced epidermis. Kim notices Catherine isn't wearing nail polish. She spots tiny dots of dirt under her cracked nails.  On top of that, her black licorice bitch-kicking boots are smudged.[Catherine, you really should go wash yourself]
Why? I'm clean. Even if I do smell a bit fishy.

concave mirror--
malleable face
alters a fixed smile

In the evenings, when Catherine's hunting for fresh bodies, Kim smokes weak Virginia Slims and gossips to the girls about her flesh factory--how she wears earrings made out of freshly peeled llama skins. She's goingau naturale,as they say. The socialites' tea cups twitch agreeably in unison with their spines, mouths gasp awe-struck and flop around in mini Asian carp orgasms. Electro-shocked eels of titillation. After the soiree, they will go home and masturbate, picturing Judas in one of Catherine's signature pieces. He's always in the same pose, fetal, as he smears grape jelly over his gaping rectum while sexily whisperingwhere's the beef?

dizygotic twins--
flounder and worm parts
mingle with rubber

Sometimes, when Kim wrestles naked angels in a cup of twisty aniliidae, she finds herself enamored of the porcupine hairs on Catherine's legs. The deep pink scar shadow of her neck She watches the muscles of her abdomen sometimes, the loose wiggling of goosepimplish necro-puppet flesh--their upraised perforations form crude pasted-on smiles. Sometimes they wink at her, squirting forth an acid bath of lochia and milky beestings.  Sometimes Kim wonders why she's wasting her time combing out the dead meal worms from Catherine's hair.  She's not getting any prettier.

leather irises--
twine flesh fumbles
with elastic noose

 
 
 
[05 Feb 2007 | Monday]

 Capillary Landscape

Azure: Window seagulls
leapt through
kapok fibers
ofour:
 
crossed skeletons
gingerly in the sand?
Where plum is conch
________to muscle
 
dis-son-ance
 
to plot
deicide
 
flowing out [rippling]
of stomach skin
 
____seismic tremor snapshots
[awry token gills, chain reaction
aperture click]
 
This [BOMB]is my birthright

 
 
 
[26 Jan 2007 | Friday]

 Paradigmatic/ Spatial

Portal you
accidental opening
& symmetrically with
I/trance/ jukebox
wherever the eye finds
itself opening a void
leapt out [of]
gossamer fog
in cracked asphalt

incidental navel--
orange grasped
in perfection--

the first storm of thought
is understaning it passes
thru

a cyclic cosmos &
escapes me? Says who?

Says the imagination
(which writes the inevitable)

There's consciousness
in holding breath--or
could be between
breaths

we: create/ stiffen
cheeks bull-froggish

--shoo black hole--

you're not a negress/flesh fly
or bottle flung toward
sun--in explosion
possibilities suddenly
stop
breathing

remember//forget
//remember:

crawling thru
open windows

impossibility
shrinks
from the ladder

 
 
 
[20 Jan 2007 | Saturday]

 The Colors of Tristan

1.

Ochre passes square
    shadow hastily born
(fields of flattened sun)

[] a window is carelessly flung open
to meet noon the tilt of heads
distance two thickets of mystery

upsidedown the faded phospherescent light
      barely peeks through curtain
birds enraptured in the joy of wings
        with turmoil aflutter

[]epidermis:limb to organ flower to cell
      here the houses middle
    tiny rosettes of flesh seep through

          Tristan

the sun is shining and still you do not
come out of your cabin to play your violin--
    become an old arched tree
     an arthritic knot of yew.

 

2.

This stomach is pregnant
this stomach is a compass
these stomachs we press together
to form one stomach of a much greater
proportion--S E W N--

have the autumnal shades of virgins trickled
through yet? The red evidence of lips?

3.

Sunken the moon pressed inward
      navel orange funnel--

a mercuric sheen painted
the much-pursued dark within us

blue/silver drops of landscape
suddenly.

The wane of crescent saved
for another day.

 
 
 
[12 Jan 2007 | Friday]

 Sketching the Picasso Man-Child

Mustached stranger (while peeking into
cloud under eyelids' mirror) a child's
dark dazzle swallows none other, onyx,
opalesque pearls of laughter.
 
 
Your slumber-wall dries out old frescos,
in the sand with your toes
(set on making the earth rise, settle).
 
This body's palace; as simple
     as its secrets hidden.
....................

           A boy
 
has lost his eyes and yet he still feels
the coals curious of sight--
 
igniting the secrets hidden under,
the temples greased with human limits--
 
P: even yours are not like water,
fluid be and brimming
 
but a mystery--the illusory clench,
the bristle your smile from behind
the shadows; an immediate
      surprise of shapes,

          dripped suddenly
 
none other than a temple, probing
the unity of dawn and night.
 
Your colossus steeped in sky

 
 
 
[13 Jan 2007 | Saturday]

 America: Thunderous Applause with Phosgene Bombs

(Scene One Act Three)

Knives forks spoons kitchen fumbling
little green screen of TV moments

under her arms smoothed-out lard
balls achieve girth in the muzzled confines

of space

(Scene One Act Nine)

stretched you easily like a ripcord an apricot--
everything tugged and soothed in the dark
every nightmarish huddling

behind the bed discipline
discipline we must

with a Webley .455 automatic
gyroscope revolver acid egg yolk
dripping vortex on a face of rubber

mamma calls the surgeon
to knife the smile out
of our faces.

She takes her clothes off
and a bless you bless you
achoo--star spangled banner

overwhelms the room
with its starry musky girl
croon trumpet between thighs
squeezes a lovely cantaloupe

ripeoh see the dawn's hunched
light as she splits it open like
her last lover's melony head--to a red-blue
vein intermission

(Scene Two Act One)

I smell soot bacon rinds mildew longing
Lampipur marketplace sitting now on
chair like a raj in April singing away
the desert bag flurries of khamsin dust
bowls blown to croaking gloom.

Stroke this skin tender joker
facetious ritualistic fuck-bag hungry

 indignant in your generous spit--
perhaps a volunteer of garishness
and excess.

(Scene Three Act Ten)

Winking by your window frames
take on monster Shelly's women
advancing readily to hang their breasts
like peacock costumes on changing room
pegs--man weapons some sort of hard-boiled
pelican stretched on the floor in a perfect strangle--

they are quick to gag the chores away. No tears.

 
 
 
 

 
Matina Stamatakis
www.myspace.com/matinals
 
A/[na]tom{y} >>of<< Girl
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