Bitha Anna




inspired by Haris Epaminonda’s, Untitled #09p/g


A body loaded with layers of protection

and yet it has never been so very naked…

So very small… So very little…

Few and the touching words touch to warm you up.

Many the insignificant, the small, the indifferent,

words of the Nobody and the Nowhere.

Only the tears warm the face, they salt it, make it breathe, keep it alive.

They follow the path from the signs that have been registered,

that have become wrinkles …

They hug you and you feel the security

that you always wanted.

It is the only thing that belongs to you, that is yours….

You are alone and you read the glances,

while what you really want is to smell a flower,

to dress your body with scents …

You see your image in the mirror.

The naked, the small, the little is in front of you…

The ritual that allows you to access heroic performances,

so you have been told, takes place in a Foucaultian heterotopia.

Or is it utopia?

When will illusion give way to the real, they wonder?

You are alone, you and your tears… 

You know that this is the only truth and that is enough to be redeemed, 

to be healed, to be healed, to care for… ..



inspired by Haris Epaminonda’s, Untitled #09p/g

She gave you her breath without thinking about the loss,

the void, the impending death…

She thought she was living with yours, the real, the pure.

Your breath and your word nourished her soul,

nectar and ambrosia on her empty deathbed …

The pain on the lips, the head, the legs was remorsefully pleasurable,

testified to the greatness of life,

of a life she had forgotten belonged to her.

Oblivion from the moment she gave breath to a person.


With you she learned or she just thought she was alive again.

The pain, the fear, the nakedness, the exposure, the words, the truth

gave her intense, mental, dreamy, orgasmic, cellular journeys…

Until the truth became unbearable, intolerable, oppressive.

The biographical rupture inevitable.

The familiar became foreign, the before confronted the after.

Negotiations, daily deaths,

deconstruction through melodies.

But she gave you her breath and took yours.

Sweet death for both of them on the bed of life…




inspired by Haris Epaminonda’s, Untitled #09p/g


Ambiguities, alternations, black-white, never gray.

The day is unbearable, stressful, makes you sick.

Its sounds cause rapid heartbeat, unbearable weight.

No breath relieves the inside…

Discourse, far and wide rhetorics travel by air,

they settle with the morning humidity on the leaves of the trees,

they evaporate, they disappear as if they had never been said…

The signifiers and the signifieds change form,

are confused, are separated.

Nothing is meant…

Your demons are an ark for you,

they meet you, play with you when daylight is lost.

You dance with them, you undress in front of them…

They understand you, they accept you, they do not judge you…

You do this to yourself,

this is how you are taught, programmed.

Lost Amazon…

Dreams of survival in a state of full vigilance in the darkness…



inspired by Yorgos Gyparakis’, Nocturnal Landscape

These are moments when you freeze, paralyze,

you may get lost.

Your body and your heart can not forget the pain experienced,

react ruthlessly, militarily.

Attack, defense, does not matter…

The sound of the fast steps of an unknown night walker,

the feeling of his hands on you, your voice calling for help,

the invasion of privacy, the fear,

the desperate search for security are disputed

and… are majestically buried.

Now and then they appear on the dream screen.

You wake up with rage, you forget, you get over it.

But you do not escape because your choices are here and they remind you,

resulting from this…

The memory of a place,

of a shelter that changed shape with a blank stare,

is enough to dispel any expectation …

Unwanted you and your truth.

It scares even though it is ignorant, they despise it,

they are indifferent in the face of its majesty.

Silence hurts you …

You have reached (a place) beyond your power by carrying the cross of your truth,

you can not just go back to what feels possible…

Their silence is a remedy eventually for you.

Mental dystopia is marginalized only by familiar smells,

like those that emerge from the soil after a sudden downpour,

from the wet sand of a beach,

from a wood that slowly burns, from a match that lights up,

from the scent of a night flower or a loved one.

Unique memories…



inspired by Yorgos Gyparakis’, Nocturnal Landscape


You swallow the inadequacy of others,

the way they generously offer it to you…


How many times do you not fall into the trap of making it your own?

Humanoids who should apologize to you they make you say thank you.

How many times do you fall into the trap of being grateful,

when you should be saying “Fuck you”?

You understand others, their behavior, you have empathy.

How many times do you not fall into the trap of setting yourself aside,

when you should be in the spotlight?

A mouse in an artistically constructed trap …

It is a given that you are caught. You are a given.

There, a rock to endure.

In exchange for the vagueness, the approximate, the maybe, the granted …

You are hovering, staggering, cold-hot.

The words that are articulated a prerequisite for you,

but you win the silence.

Will the coming end give birth to a truth,

a rudiment with responsibility and free speech?

The night is your friend.

The thoughts in the dark, the most creative of your life.

Thank the night, that’s when the real, the interesting, the full,

the sweetest “Fuck yous” are being told…