Kika Kyriakakou

from the collage series A Room of One’s Own



Kika Kyriakakou has been working as an Arts Project Manager, a Communications Director and an Arts Writer and Editor for almost 10 years (BA, Msc). She is an ICOM Member, the Collection and Exhibitions Manager of PCAI and the Artistic Director of the PCAI Residency, supervising all the arts and education related projects of the organization and undertaking its international expansion and promotion. She is also contributing as an Arts Editor with articles on new media, film and contemporary art in the Artnews newspaper (Greek edition). She has organized and curated various film festivals, screenings events and exhibitions related to moving image, contemporary art, sustainability and fashion partnering with ART21 NYC, Loop Discover and Kunstlerhaus Vienna amongst others. A self-taught photographer and videographer, she is particularly interested in urban imagery and gender history.

Η Κίκα Κυριακάκου έχει εργαστεί ως Arts Project Manager, Communications Director και Arts Writer and Editor για σχεδόν 10 χρόνια (ΒΑ, ΜSc). Είναι μέλος του ICOM, Collection & Exhibitions Manager του PCAI και Καλλιτεχνική Διευθύντρια του PCAI Residency, έχοντας αναλάβει την επίβλεψη όλων των καλλιτεχνικών και εκπαιδευτικών προγραμμάτων του οργανισμού, και τη διεθνή επέκταση και προώθησή του. Είναι επίσης, συντάκτρια στην εφημερίδα Τα Νέα της Τέχνης όπου αρθρογραφεί για τα νέα μέσα, το φιλμ και τη σύγχρονη τέχνη. Έχει οργανώσει και επιμεληθεί διάφορα φεστιβάλ ταινιών, προβολές και εκθέσεις που σχετίζονται με την κινούμενη εικόνα, τη σύγχρονη τέχνη, τη βιωσιμότητα και τη μόδα σε συνεργασία με το ART21 NYC, το Loop Discover και το Kunstlerhaus Vienna, μεταξύ άλλων. Ως αυτοδίδακτη φωτογράφο και βιντεογράφο την αποσχολούν ιδιαίτερα η αστική τοπιογραφία και η ιστορία των φύλων.

kikamod.tumblr.com

Diana Manesi

Peekaboo games for mature women (not girls)

*peekaboo: hiding game for babies, also known as son of Boogieman with oracles of the worst and best wishes to come

I use the same eyes to weep and see, mother’s weeping eyes, sister’s seeing tears. mother was a spinster. sister was a widow. man- killers of a different sort. Father says they are cunning and use their eyesight in illegitimate ways. Mother laughs over spilled milk, sister pulls out her hair and mixes them with grass to make a shag pile rug for misspelled narratives and rituals in cunning lingo

peekaboo I tricked you

{Tran T Kim Trang turned blindness}

I yank out my eyelashes and seal them in a bottle to be found some windy day on a seashore by a virgin MILF who kills her mother to sleep with her sister. I go on till mother’s eyes and sister’s tears are the same thing, till my eyelids are distorted, till I can be their difference

peekaboo I see you

When I turn six mom takes me to the ophthalmologist. boys don’t like fucking girls with glasses. they find them dreadfully boring and self-righteous. they look like they ate something really hot. I can tell when girls with glasses have been fucked. they think they can’t see past their glasses. it’s supposed to make them more attractive to men. of course I know I can’t be this type. they also think I am unfuckable, afraid I will cut off their erection with my puffy, brown, greedy eyes, all the same Daisy duck, all the same Minnie mouse, eyes swollen and sewn. men see a MILF; boys think they can see past my glasses {into “aletheia”}

peekaboo I fancy you

I am now over thirty |8.7 myopia, left eye, 9.6 hyperopia, right eye| and blepharoplasty is the last resort for girls of my type. Doctor Antony says that excess eyelid skin causes blindness. mature girls with darker skin tones have a white visible scar. post-operative swollen, bruised eyes, I don’t want to kiss them, I think of Frankenstein. wise doctor says a mid-face elevation may be required to rejuvenate the lower eyelid-cheek complex. HOT MILFs need to take care of their hotness, eat hot soup, drink rose petals, shit rose petals, and get new eyelids

“peekaboo, peekaboo, peekaboo” shouts Dr. Antony

Yesterday, I dreamed something with peekaboo. I had big puffy ears, an orange trunk. And I could send my eyes out of my head to the fridge and call them back “peekaboo come to me.” During the day, I was with peekaboo, I was peekaboo, ageless, high-spirited. I ate simple burgers and kept sending my eyelids back and forth. When it was night, the room had the colour of my inner testicles. I was human again, one damn hot MILF with poor eyesight. I open the fridge. bats come out flying. I am faced with a choice. I can either let the bats absorb all the eyesight I have left. which is probably lost anyway. or enter the fridge blindfolded and admit I need blepharoplasty. NOT. {here turned into a playscape for MILFs and their kind)

peekaboo, I need you

Diana Manesi began writing and recording diaries when she was 11. She stopped once she reached adulthood and went into academia. For many years she engaged with feminist theory, social anthropology, and cultural studies. In the last years, she began experimenting with poetic form and playful prose. In 2017 she published her first poetry collection in Greek, entitled “One and whole: One bite” by Queer Ink Publications. Recently she began writing in English. She currently resides in London and whenever she can she travels and attends poetry workshops.

Hiromi Suzuki

Foreboders

 

hiromi suzuki is a poet, novelist and artist living in Tokyo, Japan. She is the author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (Kisaragi Publishing, 2013), logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018), INVISIBLE SCENERY (Low Frequency Press, 2018). Her works have been published internationally in poetry journals, literary journals and anthologies. Web site: http://hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com Twitter : @HRMsuzuki

Kara Goughnour

Death & Taxes

Death and taxes sit on a tiled line in tin basins.
A man holds them up to explain the difference,
wiggling each like to wriggling slabs of meat.
Death, he explains, is deep red and spices,
while taxes have pink and white polka dots of fat.

The man is like a balding father, cooing above
a strung mobile, dancing for a young thing that
doesn’t give a shit other than shit itself. He packs
onions into the circular ruts of his dull eyes to cry
at graves he dug himself.

He is a jolting frizz of blonde hair on a crotch rocket,
“Gas or Ass” stickers black out the back of the metallic helmet,
a leather jacket from Target over his embroidered polo and khakis.
I imagine him with black t-shirts under polo Superman style.

Deep v-necks with bold letters spelling out
“my bike isn’t the only thing that can go from zero to one-hundred,”
or maybe even “badass” stamped across flabby chest.
He says your womanly instincts say you don’t want birth control, really.

He says this spinach is the best health insurance you’ll ever see.
He folds the meat into a neat sandwich, force-feeds me one fighting bite at a time.

Wives of Spiders

The man at work who tells you
you need to smile more only has
the best of intentions. How degrading

must a joke be before a customer can touch or punch
your work-weaned arm? How many
more unsolicited opinions of what

constitutes as work and how your work
doesn’t fall into those categories
before you get your fifty-cent raise,

before you can stop considering
instant ramen a luxury?

In this arm, you hold everything wrong with yourself
in the eyes of others; this pliable straw, like a coffee stirrer
brewing the blood in your arm with the inability for life.

You, this jewel of Clotho, this tarantula-womb of life spewing from you
endless threads of clotted possibilities and you have the audacity to burn it dry

          because you are career-focused,
          because you are stopping this lineage, proudly,
          because you are not woman enough, no, don’t want to be woman enough to bear life.

You, this daytime drinker, this shit-faced, sky-faced, head-in-the-clouds thinker
of thoughts such as writing should be work.
How many more times do you write yourself out

of this life sized up with unsolicited eyes
before you write yourself out of it
or write yourself out of yourself?

Kara Goughnour is a queer writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They received their Bachelor’s Degree in Creative and Professional Writing from The University of Pittsburgh. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in Third Point Press, the Southampton Review, and over twenty-five others. Follow them on Twitter @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.

Katie Ebbitt

Winter time

I can’t doubt my little sister anymore, in this contradictory place — it’s like renting to find the house all bought and sitting on a blanket of shriveled thoughts and memento of past/present — when I left (that day on the sledding hill) there was still an air of chivalry — now, going down this mountain, without energy, I finally tell about my disturbed life, so as not to imagine my nonsense, that beguiled by yours, we’re sober like this

Bedtime

Asylum in sleep
Night sweats
Baby brained
Terrorized with the contaminated mud
          of leftovers
Abundance of basic feminine instinct
Glistening like wet leather
Happier now than ever
Without coming to grief
Some rich locked-up person let loose
Cracked or flipped
Frugal nourishment and dead to the world
          Benched into impersonal limbo
Sparsely existing
Slept in cheap cotton underwear
Mouth wide open



Katie Ebbitt is a poet and social worker. Her chapbook, ANOTHER LIFE, was published by Counterpath Press, and she has contributed poetry to the upcoming anthology Rendering Unconscious (Trapart Books, 2019). Her work has appeared in Tupelo Magazine, FanZine, Queen Mob’s, Prelude, and Deluge, among others. She curates By The Way reading series in New York City.

Lotte L.S.

Significant Others Scale

From tomorrow the gas-lamps in the city’s streets will not be lit.

Anatoly Mariengof, The Cynics, 1928

A and B, pressing against either side of a closed door / trying to fit the outline of each other / saying, when the fit seems close, only “now” / repeating again and again until certain.

Allan Kaprow, Comfort Zones, 1975

I want to remain just a surname on the list.

Oleg Sentsov, 2016

The sun unseen as through the holes of a colander
                                         lesser light strikes down / enters from the side
a place in which there appears no one / no body
                                         no budding romance blossoming / no we
just the I causing all sight to collapse
                                         jean-claws in the corner tidying his whiskers
the pubic hair drafted into shapes resembling a T-bone steak
                                         suddenly meeting like this
in the otherwise not-for-profit night

                                       no great vertigo
of language

                                       the trap staying tightly shut

no in here / just desire
                                         handed over in hyperlink-blue
with the tongue buried deep
                                         against the being of thought
the T-bone of feeling / the thought of being
                                         the feeling that did not want to be felt / with-
held

felt nonetheless

                                         a few words interjected / then

an ankle glances at a wristwatch
                                         a cuticle gazes at a sleeve
unseen in succession
                                         the face remaining the sorry same
unmoved by its own affect

gravity redetected

false speeches pushed into the mouths of plants
                                         the I continuing to make things im-
possible:
                                         cops out / cluster headache / ~total love & blessings to all~
sentiments evacuating every neural alleyway

                                         the I / meaning / sure
you can call yourself a communist

                                         doesn’t mean you’ll survive a revolution

                                         the world turning nightly
                                         on its axis
                                         escalators gliding with backwards brilliance

the complete and utter seamlessness of the story
                                         attempting to relate to a phenomenon that exceeds it

                                         all oaks in the area
                                         promptly pumping tannings through their veins

                                         pouting their plump lips
                                         in no one’s direction

                                         as though nothing on earth had ever happened
                                         in the thinker’s cell

                                         too many attempts to be meaningful
sky-writing “divination” 4 “strategy” against the clouds

                                         refulgent in its rain / desire underfoot

clock hands overlapping at a quarter to three


                                         proliferating I’s penetrating the continually

rewritten clouds / barricading all pleasure in the plural


                                         like attempting to tie a rose to a collision spot
or land “the people” jelly-side up

                                         jean-claws employing his whiskers to gauge an opening
                                                 in the fence
the assertion of people as single letters

suggesting

that the I seizes this experience and let it become sentences

too tired to try it again

 

 



Lotte L.S. is a poet living in Great Yarmouth, the furthest easterly outlier of England. More of her work can be read here. She keeps an infrequent tinyletter, Shedonism.

Kara Goughnour

Example Proving We are Never Safe

In the teasing dark of morning,
girl with hands dried like the white-dust rot
of forgotten orange stands under the lamp-light
rays at the station’s farthest end,
where men with hoodie strings pulled taut
like police nooses smoke joints not-so-secretly,
where men in suits pace before dates
or job interviews or just because
man is known to love walking over
the most ground he can.
Girl with body like a dagger wrapped
in dining cloth slips her phone out of pocket,
checks train times, counts seconds before
speed walk along sparking train slowing
before landing where lone man stands,
glancing through girl’s shadow
into some simile or metaphor of world
where girl wants him or maybe knows his name.
Girl with head like a burst grape, ear canals gushing
with headphone-hip-hop to beat
the winter down, joins man on platform
at the minute the train is due, circumferences him
like a gnashing gator stands at his feet, like his hands
are Floridian deep water glossed with moss
and flies. Like touch from man is drowning
if it holds you long enough. Man pools
into girl’s vision with a claiming wave of hand.

When is the train due?

                                                                      Now.

Maybe we should move to the other side.
When the tracks have snow on them,
it means they’re not using the tracks.

                                                           It’s snowing.

It’s actually not heavy enough to sit
on the tracks like this, considering the
trains run often. I’m serious, the tracks
aren’t being—

Man talks like girl isn’t oozing back into herself,
like girl and man at trainstop in morning are likely
friends. Girl holding twenty-three years
of misplaced trust like dead deer dragging
enters train on the right side at the right time,
cradles her head like the man’s glance is an arrow
through it, cinches her hood over hat embroidered
with workplace logo, with red-apple target bobbing
to train-rustle, to headphone rapper’s fast lips clapping
like bear trap, Baby, you love me so. You just
don’t know it yet.

Kara Goughnour is a queer writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They received their Bachelor’s Degree in Creative and Professional Writing from The University of Pittsburgh. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in Third Point Press, the Southampton Review, and over twenty-five others. Follow them on Twitter @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.

Anna Pantelakou

Elevator

Once wrote a poem for you
Now writing a poem about you
My boss in 19

My friend in 21
My boss in 24

My grandmother in 6 and 24
My mother in all of it
Priestesses

Talked about patriarchy
-though never knew a father
Once asked for the right to
Shushed

Smacked

Smothered


Anna Pantelakou studied History and Theory of Art. She is passionate about academic writing, and is currently working on a children’s story. She was born in icy Canada, therefore writes both in English and Greek. She is based in sunny Athens.

Hiromi Suzuki

The Wedding March on Soap Operas


Someone knocks on the door of kitchen

It is Frankenstein
In a tailcoat and a white tie
For his wedding

To be exact
He is a monster
Created by a mad scientist
Dr. Victor Frankenstein

Has no name at all

The kitchen faces a creek
His coffin in solitude was dug up from the soil
And he came aboard on a glacier
From the underground waterway

Could you make the poached egg with yolk?
The golden colour is good for our escape at midnight, isn’t it?

A widow warms a pot
Creek under her feet
Passes through the downtown
And will pour into their final abode

Has no name at all



Alone, Throne, a Lonely Thorn


My elder sister in a cerulean blue wig is
On the swing as the throne alone in the park
Putting lipstick in vermillion red on her dry lips

Scattering petals of Geranium whirl in Miracle Wind
When her front teeth crush the groundnuts slowly
Out-of-season dead leaves sound in her skull

It is a lull in the sea

Listening to the rumours of sudden rain
A priest brakes the rusty bicycle again
Her flared skirt flaps in lightning


hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan. The author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013), logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018) and INVISIBLE SCENERY (Low Frequency Press, 2018). Her works are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Hotel, Burning House Press, DATABLEED, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Hotel, talking about strawberries all of the time, Mookychick, THE CERUROVE, Coldfront, RIC Journal and 3:AM Magazine. More work can be found at hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com.
Twitter : @HRMsuzuki

Katie Ebbitt

Andromeda


I dislike being picked up
          So don’t
Set me among the constellations

I cut off your head
          and slept with it, strung up over mine

Spot lit by naked bodies of women

Duh for the obsession
          on death
I will summon whatever again
I would masturbate
being bound to a rock

Being grabbed at
          your skin looks good

You have something over me
Who ever heard of a man turning
          women to stone


Castigation

Maybe I don’t crave permanence
so much as another idea
intimacy an anchorage
that I am trying to dispel


Rodentia

I lean late
Into good
To contemplate clean
There’s a lot
To say
With this old thread of recollection
To say
There’s a glass cage
That’s being emptied
Leaving a residue
A mild scent
In the freezer
Balled up and stiff
For the entire season
Until the backyard is softer
Regardless
I wrote a list
Marked the calendar
Checked the ground
Eulogized a little
About the dainty
Sweetness
From the dirt


Katie Ebbitt is a poet and social worker. Her chapbook, ANOTHER LIFE, was published by Counterpath Press, and she has contributed poetry to the upcoming anthology Rendering Unconscious (Trapart Books, 2019). Her work has appeared in Tupelo Magazine, FanZine, Queen Mob’s, Prelude, and Deluge, among others. She curates By The Way reading series in New York City.

Diana Manesi

Pep talk with Father

One

Good morning. Resilience and patience. I arrived home. Sia got the small room.
cleaned the house all over          in the kitchen worms from leftovers
Tonight the kids are coming                 I bought a mattress for the little –sleep
I am not feeling well.                    Rebound
In Athens I feel better          with chicken pox
Next week          two weeks on pills          to catch me up.
Don’t worry.          Your worries feed happy clouds                    he gave me 1000 euros.
Sia is a good housekeeper. Quiet child.
Be happy          with new blue-s dress
Good morning.          wanna hear my news
Where will you spend Christmas?
We will go to Morocco.          God knows.          Hugs& kisses

Two

Susan is beautiful, beautiful enough for me
Lubul budul          my head skipped a bit          today
two days          after Susan’s visit            her
fewer          bits the merrier Christmas    at shopping malls     car parks
a sedimentation of bags and collections                    in them I trust
I am tired     I will visit professor Gementzi     74 years’ old
Would it help if I lived in Athens?
It’s hard.     I can’t go to the gym
Fuzzy head     can’t collect me
The pills began to work     and I am locked in the coldest bathroom
We will not go to Athens.                Susan fell and broke her knee
My mouth is dry     I can’t sleep     the pills have side effects
How will I make it on my own?        Good question.                he gave me a pair of trousers
Take care of Susan.

Three

I arrived at the airport        How are you?
My migraines are unbearable        Delay/ traffic        my flight is at 8pm
I didn’t get to see you        with the other woman                you left        when
I saw a poster on an Athenian café        about Sankara        and his illusion show.
Migraines are the legacy of witches,
garbage bags of unfulfilled traffic.
I want to witness Sankara’s magic — he might possess the insides of Joan Crawford’s deranged daughter who kills her mother’s lovers.
I hope he cures migraines.

Four

Tattoo artists are the best forgers
What’s your plans now?       It’s late        my throat is quietly tuning with my bowl
Daddy wants a new car          a nice car          double sided
One cut of the dead          and I feel          hardwired to plan inks
He says nothing
He’s just a figment of people’s imaginations
God              replace the old BMW
When we met, you were pretty and I lonely
God save ink forgers (A lot of God in here).

Five

Thank you for confirming which life session you attended.
We note that you submitted a pay claim form for a total of 5 hours.
Why? What’s bothering you? Calm down. Don’t pressure yourself. Enjoy life.
As you only attended 5 of the 7 training hours provided by us,
you need to show love.
Life is beautiful. If you find a job you really enjoy, you’ll feel better.
As you only attended 2 of the 5 training hours provided by Father,
you need to stop thinking too much.
We will therefore not be approving the additional 5 hours.
Start yoga and meditation to live in the now.

Six

Descending into mad, watching the “Shining” on Netflix,           “you are nothing but a fraud”
Decaying replica        of Socrates unwritten words
        The shinning       of    snow              in a full-packed auditorium   with neo-soul sounds
       &nbsp &       &nbsp &from New Orleans
copy-paste          my mind needs          citalopram          placebo effects
    smoking gives a boost       &nbsp &    smoking gives a boost
in the mist of a saddening day    smoking gives a boost       &to Mona-Lisa and back
“you are a fraud”, you hear me!
I am doing my best    it’s not enough
I am really trying            not to desert her
Russian dolls pop         one after the other
snails suck my gastric fluids    and let go of my fingers
godfather died    and with him the golden necklace    of the Russian doll
Bless her, she was a good girl.


Diana Manesi began writing and recording diaries when she was 11. She stopped once she reached adulthood and went into academia. For many years she engaged with feminist theory, social anthropology, and cultural studies. In the last years, she began experimenting with poetic form and playful prose. In 2017 she published her first poetry collection in Greek, entitled “One and whole: One bite” by Queer Ink Publications. Recently she began writing in English. She currently resides in London and whenever she can she travels and attends poetry workshops.

Serena Braida

it is pure gold the satin oil on god’s fingers, the little devils trotting towards us

good grief you go go
harvest lemons
go get clean the whole
shebang

/ ’tis for your eyes’ sake
the sense of the land being sucked out of you /

you try a robe on,
my poor frangipane girl,
Gabriele licks your forearm,
the sun glees

and this feeling of transatlantic
                                                                                arson
                                                                                could be real.



Serena Braida is a writer & performer currently specialising in voice work. She grew up near Rome and moved to London in 2011. Her poetry pamphlet BLUE SHEILA was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2018. Serena’s work, both in Italian and English, has appeared or is forthcoming in HVTN Press, Hotel, Orlando, Hotdog, Nuovi Argomenti and more, and in anthologies including Wretched Strangers (Boiler House Press 2018). Notable performances include the Festival of Italian Literature in London, Goldsmiths LitLive, European Poetry Festival, Late Night Jazz at the Royal Albert Hall’s Elgar Room and the play Muscovado. 

The Eccentric Issue

Notes on some contents:

~ “an attempt to map the shift of orientation, as well as perspicacity, that accompanies technological advances in war making” – Louise Akers.

~ “Hysteria of language, closed in a hotel” – Aurélia Declercq.

~ “The video attempts a redefinition of queerness through the lens of the “glitch” –” – Eremus.

~ 4 short pieces that “are part of a collection, “Paper Axe,” in which each piece interacts with the material page it is written on. For some, this includes fold marks to create origami shapes” – Brooke Larson.

~ “The work is restricted by the constraint of 280 characters” – Andrew Taylor.

~ Poetry that “wrestles with the eccentricities of gender (identity and expression) as it relates to obsession, death, kink, love, comfort, and our current political and social moment under capitalism. The eccentric appears like a margin…” -yarrow yes woods.

Many thanks to Louise Akers, Thedoros Chiotis, Aurelia Declercq, Bryan Edenfield, Eremus, Carolyn Guinzio, Brooke Larson, John Morgan, Joshua Smith, Corinne A. Schneider, Andrew Taylor, Βασιλεία Στυλιανίδου//Vassiliea Stylianidou, yarrow yes woods for their brilliant works!

Enjoy the Eccentric issue!

Dimitra Ioannou

Louise Akers

Louise Akers’ poetic project is an attempt to map the shift of orientation, as well as perspicacity, that accompanies technological advances in war making. If we understand that drone warfare operates on a vertical axis of violence, we can examine its orientation through modes of desire. We look up, we become spotters; we look down, through a monitor–god’s eye view. If, as Sarah Ahmed suggests in her book Queer Phenomenology, a vertical orientation is implicitly heterosexual, what/where are the lines along we can direct horizontal (queer) systems of desire to segment and deflect heteropatriarchal violence? Hijacking the form of the creation myth, Akers draws lines from the antecedents to the operators to the futures of drone warfare as it has become integral to the contemporary US American socio-political/emotional/aesthetic/religious landscape. When territories are surveilled and murder sanctioned from remote distances at great heights, we begin to conceive of space “not as it is, but space as we make it” (Hito Steyerl, Wretched of the Screen, p. 26), thus designating an invisible and ubiquitous theatre of perpetual, US American war. The dialogue is sourced from Gregoire Chamayou’s A Theory of Drone (p.1-9)

Louise Akers is a poet and and educator living in Brooklyn, NY. She earned her MFA from Brown University in May of 2018, and the Rosemary and Keith Waldrop Prize for Innovative Poetry in 2017. Louise currently serves as the Books Editor at Anomalous Press.