"Poznań City Gospel" full poetry chapbook.

And the Living Theaters They Never Come

And the Living Theaters they never come
And the circus in always non-present
And the lights never shone
With a shovel at Rathaus
Or St. Roch's bridge
Or through silenced
Red docks
With a gallow

The gallow pole's a-swinging slower
The gallow pole's a-singing blue

And the melted waxes did never flow
And the streets were as bone
Of a whale
At Woźna
Where funerals come
On candles and rum
With Lili and Stetsons
And Japanese watches

The gallow pole's a-swinging lower
The gallow pole's a-singing blue

And the spinal cords they never break
Like straw, as the chords are all minor
For the busker
Named Gerard
And his sweet little rat named Chloe
The only creature
In love / alive here

The gallow pole's a-swinging sober
The gallow pole's a-singing blue

O, beloved city of mine:
You've chosen your refrains
Such a long time ago

By the time I choose mine
You'll be
Gone
And buried
And nameless

The Sky’s a Big Bowl of Pus Round Here

The sky's a big bowl of pus round here
The street prophet claims
As he counts up his bruises
And cuts off all strings
And the coffins come in all colors
And our brains are still very tender
The crucifixes still radiant
The crucifixes still hanging

See this little Persian girl / her eyes are all ablaze
Reflecting all misfortunes / in the crucifixes gaze

The moon is never quite psychedelic
The jazzmen are never in tune
The winds are never eternal enough
The pus flows on
The pus conceals
The pus is a serious commitment
Pus is inside of the jazzmen's
Hearts

See this little Persian girl / her eyes are all ablaze
Reflecting all misfortunes / in the crucifixes gaze

And the moon's all pus too
The cobblestone's pus
My longings are pus
Your body is pus
Your thighs are death's smiling daughters
Her whore's refined
Volares
The sky's a big bowl of pus round here
I'm sorry, I really can't help you

See this little Persian girl / her eyes are all ablaze
Reflecting all misfortunes / in the crucifixes gaze

Tell me, your stockings are pus
Your jewels and necklace are pus
The bridal dim bed is pus
The wedding is pus as the bells cut through you
Like cheese
Like coffee
Like cheap Russian vodka
Like life
Like sex or religion

And the Persian girl smiles no more / she's rotting right there on the floor

Seagulls Against All Obscurity

Come a-circling from the Baltic Sea direction
Come a-flying to this concrete jungle mess
Come, caress
B/w hope for dreams to last
Surpass
The pest

Comes like a bop song's forgotten figment
A missing passage
And ten thousand breaths over six million kisses
Six million kisses over these blocks
Holy cocks
And the Shadow Boys heaven

Seagulls against all obscurity
Dance... she whispers... just like the Baltic sea

And the Shadow Boys heaven's
A black firecracker
A fortune cookie
Or orange tea

Come, caress
Let us sleep inside this house
Let us sleep inside this nest
Surpass
The pest

Comes like a beast for your legs
Claws like the devil
Tears like the rain
Stay plain, please
Remain

Surpass the pest – graffittis say
Tear like the rain
For you to stay

This city grows only out of my back
Like a pair of tar fucking
Wings
Hear how the young girl sings

Just like the Baltic sea

Tar and Feathers Blues

We've murdered the very last swan
As the bastard froze on the lake
We've collected his crying feathers
And reflected upon their loss

Sing us some more boys / feed us some notes

We've sliced up the very last sacred heart
All's here now hooks in the abattoir
We smile as the boys sing out their dues
Tar and Feathers forbidden Blues

Sing us some more boys / feed us some pain

We've recognized our bodies only
At the last night of any chances
Last night in smokestack shelters
Last night on garage rooftops

Sing us some more boys / feed us some notes

Them dreary old blues keep on coming
Resting... surviving the madness
The dinner's served cold
And the boys are served dead
The finest young poets around

Sing out some moon boys / the sunlight is tired

Them boys can't sing no more
The Tar and Feather old Blues
Gets so depressing and crushing
No proper instruments left

Go to the vault... bring forth the old Hammond
The trashy and tacky and bluey one
The one poppa used to smash on

Sing us some more boys / feed us some notes
Sing out some sorrow / the blues here gets worse

And we've murdered the very last fetus
At least children won't witness
The hell

The Orange Skies Fade Out

What sense to make love
While our orange skies fade out
The skin grows older
And the cuts go deeper
The bruises are here to stay
Marks of some sick love fulfilled
Marks of oedipal cities
Curves of empty highways
What sense to make love
While our orange skies fade out?

And it drags you down forever / and it drags its song forever
And the fever that it serves you / is just bitter for the better

I'd shoot this damn city into my mainline
Brain-line
Scum

I'd count all the hobos and make them go
Make them burn for one cigar
Burn like the monks in the night
Like birds on the telephone wire
Like fridges in autumn
What sense to make love
While our orange skies watch

I'd shoot this damn city down
If only I could survive
Above

And it drags you down forever / and it drags its song forever
And the fever that it serves you / is just bitter for the better

I... I wanna see... I wanna see the moon over Poznan
Rise for the very last time... I... I wanna hear the fucking moon howl
Or rise in a different color... or end with a different rhyme
Forbid thee the orange skies
Make love
Besides

And it drags you down forever / and it drags its song forever
And the fever that it serves you / is just bitter for the better
Like your wine

Baby M

Baby M... guess I loved you way back when
The drunk days have come to stay
The drunk days were savior's 3 midnights grave
I loved you then... Baby M... I loved you, my midnight frame

And this M does not stand for Murder, Mother, Mission, Mercy
Madness, Monk, Mundane or March
Marzipan or Methedrine
Stands only here for your thing
Stands only here for your name
Baby M

But I've since sailed the most wicked oceans
Not the ones of your arms or legs
Not your neck's pretty landslide
Not your hair's incense
Not the chains of your eyes
Drove my Buick out of here... then gave it away... then got myself high
You cried... Baby M... but I swear I loved you back then
And I kissed your impatient hand
Like our city's corrupted plan
A map for your lust
Baby M
And I guess I loved you back then

I loved me some Coltrane... I loved me some Godard
And Baby M... no scripts are there... it's all been improvised
And I guess I loved your hand... oh pretty Baby M

And I wrote you a million and nine pretty poems
And I fucked your death away... you made me good
You made me white... you're still glued to my broken side
And I'm still your man...Baby M
Still your clown on parade

I loved me some bourbon... could afford it back then
Could be drunk all time... could be calm, could be sane
Now it's all over the top...now the cars really came
The sirens are wailing for me...Baby M
Madly so... madly sane... Baby M... hope it's no game

Still I kiss your impatient hand
Like our city's corrupted plan
A map for your lust
Baby M
And I guess I loved you back then
And I loved you without any script
I loved you without any plan

Knots

We've been going a cappella for too long
Need a drum... a voodoo for the streets
A black panther evening... a Che Guevara morning
A shotgun... a prairie... a thick coyote moon
A cactus... an orchid

We've been going a cappella for too long
Beneath this city's sterile roam
Gloomy roads... mimics cool... forgotten Gypsy fathers

And the knots went tighter for you and me
For liberty... for woolen asylums

We've been going a cappella for too long
Now even the crows can't sing along

Now the spirit's trapped at the breaking wall's seams
Where no cardboard prophets write
Where no one's enjoying the ride... the river is never wide
The ocean is never there

And the knots went tighter along the way
All trips got beauty beneath the radar
Stare

Give me a rosebud... or horses... or give me mandalas
Parallel angels... works of god's lonely beauty
Works of god's lonely men

A sordid corrida... a tango with death's blistered eyeballs
A six inch knife... a peel of your heart... a corkscrew finger
Futurist's dreams... von Braun infernos
All in this city... all in its magic
This city must be a woman
She's oh so-so-sophisticated
She's oh so cruel
Oh so distant
And lovely
And tired
And weak

Let’s Draw Us Some Pictures

Let's draw us some pictures of
Dandelions
Draw us some pictures of orange blankets
Burnt with real cheap cigarettes... smeared in heavy midnight
Wine
The only way to survive here's to die
Die to this shifting blue form
Urban shriek
Antonioni's nightmare
Let's draw us some pictures of
Deserts
Draw us some pictures of traffic lights
The only way to survive here's to fly
To drive... drive through the panic
Then rest at your orange blanket's edge
Outskirtal palace... corrosive rain
Songs a million years long... rooms a million years wide
Eyes a million years true
Let's draw us some pictures of
Matchstick men
Let's draw us some pictures on doves
Wing analysis... flight analysis
Strawberries and milk... concrete and feathers
Let's draw us some pictures of Poznan
Sing out a kantata for leisure's blue pawns
Witness the jazz singer's death
Let's draw us some pictures of tombstones
Of airplanes... of kittens
Let's send out some postcards... send them out to Japan
Make them return a million years wise
A million years true... a million years eyed
Let's draw us some pictures of
Poppies
Or sing us some gospel... or piss off some god
And then forget the whole thing

Where the Blues Kills the Singer Not the Other Way Round

I long to be where the blues kills the singer
Not the other way round
Where she rips out his inners... feeds them to beggars
Feeds beggars to gray filthy cats of delirium
Rejects the hand that tortures
With eyes wide open I'd stand and admire
And dance on her mad restless fires

I long to be where the audience's skilled more
Than the singer on stage
Than the male Blue Angel
With fake wings attached to his nose

I long to be at the scalpel's edge
To see through the city while cutting through it
To be what I'm after... to finally bleed

How I long to be where the blues kills the singer
And pianos are webbed of goodbyes
And basses are tangled of sweetest hellos
And some mute little songs
Of blue passer-bys

I long to be where her heels click out „mercy!”
And „satin!” and „metal!” and „velvet!”
The Blue Butterfly's now open all night
Give me, please, doll, give me danger

I long to be where the blues kills the singer
And all groupies collide with the train
Where she cuts off his finger, she's Spanish Lady
Laying her rose on my hand
And burn with her mad restless fires
To dance

Twirl as some basalt vertigo... but it's just her hair
Just her horizon...just her very own way

I love the blues as I love this city
Only when it burns

All’s Rust

All's rust by now... all's trust... her bra... untied
Like vein pretty highways
Same gritty directions... growing chrome fins... raptors
Lizards

And my golden ring's no more magic
The city's proud roundabout
Like Roman noblemen

Roman candles
Roman
Legions

Go down to the Wartime Museums
Some traces of life might still be there
Some traces might've survived

The zen schools are closed

This could just as well we
The really last visit
In the Rooms of the Living
Under the wings of a diamond-laced angel
Or tropical sunset
Ladies

All's rust by now... all's a must... her stain
Still there
Like this city's howling absence of ambiance
Or rattlesnake
Cupcakes
Spat over the mirrors

Meanwhile
Rosicrucians
Enter town

Might mean we need a new hope... might be a mean one, too
Not at all angelic
Blueish
Or Mary-able

All's rust by now... and though the carousels keep spinning
The Living Theaters they never come

Who sane would've entered
The Holocaust Plain?