marina tziara

Felicidades y lo siento

Beatrice & Juliette belongs to someone else now.
She always belonged to herself, though.

I informed the woman who loved her, and she said:
Congrats & I’m sorry.

As if you were cutting your toenails. Or quitting smoking (a big sorry).
Getting married again. Wanking on your best friend.

As if December hits you in the face:
congrats, you made it to the end of the year;
I’m sorry you have to go through this last month,
when everything stops working at the same instant—
a domino of idle inertia.

washing machine, phone, cleaning robot,
my favourite coat’s button on the loose,
the nail cutter, my easel missing a screw.

Congrats, you got a haircut before Xmas.
I’m sorry it’s unfit. I’m sorry you have a fringe.

Tripod also broken.
Now I have to make little piles of uneven objects
to take a picture, the salt jar, tall stools, half-empty tea mugs,
the toaster, two pencils attached to my hair scrunchie.

Congrats on your constructions I’m sorry you never liked Lego.

As if: cumming on the wrong fantasy.

She wished me an anamour for life.
That’s why I wore a dress and took her out to the snowy cyanotype.
Our last time.

In the junction of the union
there is a piece of my past life.

Last year a man came to buy her for double the price.
He looked me in the eye, telling me:
she is perfect, but this bit in the middle
I couldn’t care less. Makes no difference.

“She is a beauty, it is true, but not an angel,” as Emily wrote in 1847.

She’s got a past, and now she is making history
had to roll her fast to catch a train in London

shipped her back and forth from Cyprus
she stood in an old monastery in Belgium
she was in my bedroom, with the wrong man

that’s why she is not yours, it made no difference to you.

Oh, but those who took her have fair hair and watery eyes,
and two boys similar to mineral formations and limestone colorations, and

 an abundance of cats.

My beloved painting is craving
your adorable chaos . Not sorry. We’ve been blessed.