Occupied with the quintessential beauty
of an ancient, Apollonian cloth roll
found sealed in a plain thick-necked amphora
beneath Parthenon Sanctum,
a hundred generosexual fashion tailors
have been sewing
- for many months of a long year -
among benevolent deliria and others
between two repeated ambiguous beige daydreams.
One-use needles
Parisian silk thread
On due day a hundred vertical folds on a sleeveless gown,
an olive wreath
and weedy wood climbing laces,
for the contestant’s after-win feast.
A she-male is wearing history tonight
in the hope of passing a female self over
-through a metaphysical menstrual tunnel-
to the opposite shore,
where tailors are women,
tales are gender-balanced
and tails are between legs.
(Larnaca,08/02/08)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem