Father is calling for home repairs.

(O Πατέρας καλεί για την επισκευή της Oικείας)  120 x 100 cm, oil on canvas .

  My father, Michael, recently bought the place,
 but it needs fixing.

 Detail #1, the three kind older residents will be staying with us.

Detail #2, the old owner rotting in the kitchen, 
where the old fridge used to be.

Detail #3, it's time to stop laying,
 watching and smoking bad stuff, get up and give him a hand.



 I was Salome, 
you were Jokanaan, 
I threw for you my seven veils...

But never kissed you in the sea,
 I stood unclothed, your shore was gold,

 your sun was black, I wore my shades,

 and took from you your seven blades.

 I was Salome, 
you were Jokanaan,
white was your skin, 
  black were my nails...

 N' what if I've seen you in a dream,
n' what if I swore we've kissed before,

some myths are bound to never change
till all the letters rearrange...

Here is my heart up on a plate,
well, won't you share your lovely hair?

Baby, I'm told, I'm growing old, so,
let my just hold your gentle air...


The spy who bugged me.

 Τhe great difference
 between a good spy
and a petty detective,
it ain't being effective,
ain't being objective.

 You shoulda've listened with your heart.

Now fuck your periscope,
fuck your phony 360 view.
You'll never ever have a clew
of how I loved you.

Your programs failed,
robotic, misanthropic,
only thing recorded
is my struggle to get over,
get over, get over you.
Now fuck your fancy telescope,
fuck your poison antidote,
you'll die and never have a clew
of how I love you.

Now, is this all you can do for your country, fckr?
Cry like a lil btch,
stub like Mafia,
hit & run from your own motherland.
Go judge your own treason,
go fuck yourself in your own little prison,
say no to all your visitors,

 n' by the end of this season go back to
Cry like a lil btch,
stub like Mafia,
hit n' run from
your own motherland.
 Is this all you can do for your own country, fckr?
how many identities are allowed in double O's?

Bodies in bags, gun's  blazin' hot,
we died and you never had a clew
of how I loved you,
simple and true.


Christmas in Athens!

Yesterday evening, me and the Swing Shoes, along with our brotherly band The Happy Dog Project (sharing the same bass & drums player) performed on Syntagma Square for the annual Xmas concerts of the city of Athens. Free, open gigs are awesome cause you get to play for every kind of age and race group, so sharing the love gets much easier and to the point. So, best wishes to everybody for a kind and loving Christmas and a joyful, healthy 2015.


Back to School #2.

According to many experienced iconographers, maybe the best Byzantine Iconography school was located all along a few blocks from my house. I'm feeling pretty lucky learning this amazing technique and meeting all these new friends. In case you're interested, the school is located at Plaitou 11, Peiraiki and it's the only school that actually provides the graduates with an official degree.


I'd rather be on a mountain top.

 I long to live on a mountain top,
free from this city's vileness and wrath.
Free from the plots and the whoring of hearts,
up on the hill all is simple and still.

 Am I a coward for abandoning the flock?
City's the battlefield but shepherd I'm not.
Too many leaders, yet too little light.
Lord, should I go up that mountain or stay down n' fight?

 Lovers they played me and teachers they lied,
relatives tortured me, n' my children they died,
n' you know I thank you Lord for each sin that I pay,
but who am I to even think I can show them the way?

 Hasn't been too long since  I was a big sinner myself,
prayin' for heaven but bringing forth hell.
Only thing I learned is that the one place to lean on
is brotherly love and a conciousness clean

 Too many books taught me knowledge there's none,
too many travels but destination's just one,

 n' though I love every creature I meet on the spot
I'd rather be on a mountain top,

 I'd rather be on a mountain top,
I'd rather be on a mountain top,
I'd rather be on a mountain top,
I'd rather be on a mountain top.


Won't pass it on.

 It's a plague in our species
this self absorption,
but I ain't willing to pass it on.
I'll hit the doctor
tomorrow morning,
might do me nothing,
but I'll do something.

 This bag of lies
that keeps on feeding me
I won't be needing it,
I won't keep cravin' it.
This self abuse
I got myself into,
I won't pass it on baby,
won't pass it on.
I might find out
there ain't no tricks,
maybe I'm just too broken by this life
and can't be fixed,
 at least I'll know baby
and that is something,
cause then I won't let myself
pass it on, won't pass it on.

 I might just find out
that there's a cure out there,
might take my whole life
until I'm pure again,
might do me nothing,
but I'll do something
not to pass it on baby.

 So thank you for beating me
n' throwin' all your sht in me,
If I weren't lovin' it
then I wouldn't feed from it,
this gene of Georgia,
I'll  make it work or
I won't pass it on baby,
I won't pass it on.