"Weighty" (New poem, 2021/11/28)

Thrown into this world like dragonflies
reason to exist
no one knows where to change
amen in prayer and the Bronx
who will say where the morning jazz is playing
as quiet as a cup of coffee
the inspiration of a French surrealist
or the kiss of the astral lady

thrown into this world like dragonflies
zero point of existence
I don't know anything about existence
I only studied life
and in silence I don't know who's playing jazz
for my twisted fingers
which still beat the rhythm of the evening
on the canvases of a plastic cup
the coffee continues to flow
but no one is looking anymore

I don't know how many cars before
I was hit on the belts
nor who walks the dragonflies
I also don't know how many streets are left for me
and how much salvation has shattered

I don't know how much a monster I am
own creation
and how much a mirror for other monsters
and the mutation of love

how many more pages do I have to fill with a peacock
vomiting of yesterday tomorrow
they flow down from the anemia sky
where blood is collected in plastic
and poured into my coffee
yours is still clean
you are only 19 years old

once in Berlin I heard a song
about dragonflies
I repeat it with the mantra of harmony
the idea of empty harmony
like mirrors and black and white photos of pate

who know, who knows, I know, you know
but together we have nothing but coffee
and Sunday is like a cylinder
which pulverizes the clouds with asbestos
and a plot of poppies in love

"1980 AD (for Robert Calvert)" (New poem, 2021/11/24)

"Let he who has not been stoned
Cast the first sin."

articulate dawn in red voltage
there's snow everywhere, smoke rising into Orion
11 a.m.
the hour when you’re most likely die
but nothing happens
except radio hum Atlantis
sending out news from the autochtone

I realize
there's no noticeable difference
between a saint and a madman
hair and beard on bumblebee street
old Hindu LPs in the dollar bin
books on Africa and such

snow crystal
falls
evaporate skies begin their elaborate dance
Orion drifts above me

I am always present
the limbs are always spooky
I tune my bass guitar
it is always hot
tenses mix
and spaces occur as a dream
from beyond the stratosphere

B-movie sort of feeling
in the comfort stone
fragments of song appear, and Robert is singing
Quark
and Work Song
suddenly back to past tense

I was dead I was nurturing dead
I'm very sorry if somebody boiled their heads
to the rhythm my machines made
I was in such a hurry... trying to record a dream...
I'm very sorry, if I failed, failed within

smoke rises again, it has risen to bomb size
then European oldies but goodies stormed the house
on the hill
I realized
this was a war between me and the girl.
the girl won. I can't sing.

"Hydra of Your Centuries" (New poem, 2021/11/15)

I feel sad and lonely for those
on the outside, in this cruel autumn moon
reaching out for familiar faces
in the afternoon of their wealth
skinning the dollar
outsourcing the soul
pushers of god

they are forever drugged and wasted
in sleep they escape
but their escape is hollow
like the cruel autumn sky
I mentioned the moon before
perhaps it's hollow too – who knows the magic of stone
accompanying every ocean
on this sad and lonely planet

pushers of god
were never my amigos
but I feel obliged to listen
to everything they mention on the phone
taking the longest call home I ever encountered
speaking of loss
pain, guilt, and dark trips and murky voyages
to the depths
of their empty pockets – eyes of Siva
vending the essence back to the mountains
where it was
never born

a psyche I don't need
and a body I don't remember having
crossed me out of my own urban myth
decomposing flowers for Gina
who still enjoys her cheese in the backyard
smiling at me like a gun

she says, don't be sad and lonely anymore
the planet sparkles new life
dolphins and whales sing out their circles
of true intelligent life
not some human babble
noise of cities
homo erectus nonsense

she's saying everything is seed
and dog open lyric
you just need to learn to listen as
one to air clear, unsubtle
hydra of your centuries

"Patricia" (from "Your Existence is Revolt", coming to TIBProd. Italy January 2022).

The World of A.J. Kaufmann · "Patricia" (from "Your Existence is Revolt", coming to TIBProd. Italy January 2022).

"Same as the Devil Was" (New poem, 2021/11/15)

hail of stars
ball of your pretty oceans
I want to desire for myself
ships with no sails
arriving in your orbit
arrhythmic bop of seductive blindness
of the first morning light encountering
this nebula

I thought we were kind
but we were only watching the sun
swift ways with Jupiter
screaming like bombs above our heads
mute angel wanderer

so, where are you searching
for
all the words are there in you
in or/of when
did you meet the wind women
free in majesty
street auras
shimmering glass
in the desert

where or what made you think
are you my friend, or are you stranger
passing this way before
struggling for life
and matter

I was once born every day
torn every day
sworn and grown and kept amazed
I remember tall trees in my favorite winter garden
breaking in two
over the wonderland of birth

this wasn't Earth in space
this was space in death
a whole cosmos of neon
reflected in your fish lens eye
for all the drums to beat
in glory of post-war hooray

now total chaos surrounds me
in it, they say, some see creation
sane but dull
dancing in darkness
same as the devil was

"In the Cocktail of Stars" (New poem, 2021/11/15)

in space
streetcar speeds fantastic
I rarely get a chance to breathe
in between stations
I skip to the newsflash
pour me a shot of daily chaos
enjoy the outcome
of holy damp day

I think there's no need to hurry
I've got everything ready
Italian noise tapes
Italian flowers
Italian gallery
to welcome my Italian lady

but plans get verified by other plans
and battles I fought mean nothing
when the ice settles down
on the corpse
swinging low to some 60s freakbeat
on a death parquet

I know she won't arrive
I know this dreamworld is fake
and plastic vase for plastic oranges
engulfs the orange chair
recent designer
job

some comforting muzak in the distance
pizza man arrives
ice cream truck arrives
my day is complete

the morning shakes off the scent of sex
I'm no longer interested in body
I watch it glitter in rot
retro is what it is
never useful for travels
at the speed of
meta Sun-Raelistic
light

I think there's no use of writing today
no use of waking up, even
though I'm quiet in the evening
and the tidal waves of Atlantis stop at my forehead
I feel just a pawn
in the cocktail of stars

"Sonya (In a Better World)" (New poem, 2021/11/14)

I awake
vast prayers of morning
slow damn process
lights asbestos long
each blurring beat
shimmering the street naked rugs
I slide slowly into a better world
back from the trips
back from the noise of the city
sky soulscraper
ready to stroke the skull of the clouds

their mantra
stays with me
takes me through fields of music
where I learn to play the piano
with my Berlin maestro
in dreamzone
in a huge library
of lifetimes

I choose a book and am gone
there is not much left of the 20s me
collecting notebooks by the fire
firing up the guitar
flames from the piano
strange circular flowers
thrown on my grave
from above

no, I don't remember your name
I don't care
I won't be here tomorrow
no, not a single chance

so, I motion the dawn if and in infinite caravans
rolling through the deserts of Venus
the only planet I notice
here, up in the Alps
though the sky is filled with dots
a childlike soul will join
to form pictures
of herds and straws and cocktails
if only she is aware now
counting the grungy snowflakes
of youth
nostalgia of childhood
Sonya,
my 20s lover
in a better world

"Your Existence Is Revolt" (from "Your Existence is Revolt", coming to TIBProd. Italy January 2022).

The World of A.J. Kaufmann · "Your Existence Is Revolt" (from "Your Existence is Revolt", coming to TIBProd. Italy January 2022).

"Garbo" - New song (2021/11/11)

Adam Majdecki-Janicki · "Garbo"

"Pastel" (New poem, 2021/11/11)

communist sun betrayed us
we were once a pastel shiny kingdom
of seaside benches, mountain yodel
far from one shore to the next one
new blocks were erected
people were driving their pastel
shiny cars
on pastel shiny roads
of pastel shiny
villages

where all the amenities were available
to workers' pride and farm daughters
farming for the village shops
the charms of
buffer state
freedom

if lucky, you could see Alexanderplatz
the height of the sci-fi dream
that space age flair
of cosmic architecture
while driving into GDR
like a jackal on wheels of a Fiat

yes, we were once in orbit
space age warriors of the futuristic saga samba
now what's left of these hopes
the pastel paint on seaside benches is rust
the mountain yodel is suddenly foreign
the shores are empty
and the borders scream fire

from all the strangers approaching to cross it
doubting arts, at fight
with the politicians who fight
other politicians
by making people break into groups
TV foes
and
TV allies

eternally complicated to rule
the masses, and prevent
wars, which happen anyway
wherever in the world where it's noisy
and sweat falls off the pastel colors
showing shades of steel and concrete
proudly built in the heyday
of clashing the East with western democracy

"Love Immortals" (New poem, 2021/11/11)

indolent moon
replacing known words for order
order for beauty
high-born
over-born

guiding its new paths of pressure
over heads and arms colliding
in a concert hall
below
immortal
and flyly secure

string quartet of death
applauding the audience
that knows nothing of failure
money and decision
indirectly speaking of lust
sin and glory
of the past given days, 20th century fix

by abiding the breed power committee
sweet-breathed lamb machines
drone at me
and falling breath lifts my finger
not one giant
passionately shimmers
who faints in the pool
she again

when desire nights away
whose harmonies remain gleaning
it's their Christian
in a strangely cell

we've been here before
gazing at the moon
waiting for the winter sun
applauding the quartet

cross out my dreams, they are spare
dance the winter sun
until the clouds armada appears
guide me to the Nepal glow
then stroke my heart with wind
in that way we'll be immortal
you and me
in the current of sleep
below the great snow pyramid
of existence

"Blue Butterfly" (New poem, 2021/11/09)

morning vibe deafens my head
I shave the curtains
bum away from the dream
there's plenty of room for cupcakes
but I'm not hungry
although

when I open my mouth, poet
velvet, velvet cuts metal
in the Blue Butterfly
far from the wall
the most refined ladies await

morning birds swiftly cover the sun
it's weekend
in Berlin
and all the radios scream
apocalypse and propaganda
 
metal, metal cuts velvet
glass floor
liana ceiling
they raise their voices temple

I see last night's bottles lined up on the floor
next of kin to misery
sex of spinning martyrs

when I open my mouth, bird
evening apple pie, I open it
chips sparkle from the floors
a rack flows down from the ceiling
for the night
good night

the Blue Butterfly is silent now
exit stage from bright jazz
of automated reflexes
there is no one waiting outside
and the cabs are late

we are always the sun
against the bird wing
our voices get carried away
by children like twilight arrows

metal and velvet
the announcer drinks with us
like Brecht
and the girls from the wall

Tadeusz Miciński in my translation, excerpts.

***

Climb in me black flowers -
golden flowers,
bloody flowers.
Before Adonai cursed Cain's tribe
these worlds were whirling
in fires of Might and Thrones -
and from crystal bells
they flowed to the earth in heavenly melodies
.

Ah, the sinister horses of my follies
with the whirlwind of falling comets
lifted me into Chimera's castle -
where on crosses, stretched
I saw bodies of tortured Andromedas
and dumb Sphinxs' rapt faces.
(...phosphorescently illuminating
in deep wells -
inviting one-eyed
giants over...)

On a ruby peak, entangled in lianas
of zodiacs and in dreamy nebulae of protosphere -
this infernal Jerusalem.
The rustled cedars glow with wind
like burning chandeliers.
Among the columns black of a gigantic Cathedral
enchanted lies the figure of Berenice.

(... and winter wilderness
plays her anthem -
and simooms
unfold their wings upon her...)

***

When in a strange dream of Eden,
cradled in a whisper of tulips,
I clothed you in silvery mists
on a distant island of the Oceans
(in a strange dream of Eden) -
sapphire rose in the fires
I gave out from my womb
and tears of joy in the storm of stars
I melted in Orion's glow -
oh, I saw you:
dreamed by me,
by me for an age condemned.

Vengeful god plucked my heart's flower
and among the caves of the desert moon
spirits of snakes rose into a forest of lofty pines -
and from the skyreaching rocks where a shrine stood
a phosphorescent cold reptile was looking at me -
from the rocks, where death snuggles up to the gates.

The Yellow Blackness - "Sunblazed Unicorn"

Tall Yodas - ParanoYa

Adam Majdecki-Janicki · Tall Yodas - ParanoYa

"Waiting in the Wings" (New poem, 2021/11/06)

If you think of time sometime which is
some time
back ago you wanderer
slipped up cups of LSD
in Sally's hair

there's drifting people everywhere
stoned forever in their wisdom
the glare of time's panic
whips the swine
back where
pearls are shown in their eyes

we are swine
hungry, beaten, trodden
yes
there's many
there

but
I'm picking my bass with stars
swirling new
across long walls
where open plaster blends a frill
its debt is to pay

Sally doesn't care
she was always the cool kid with a stoned stare
loaded on machines of dementia
sky trotter ultimate

we are one
we walk by
stunned in the arms of fury
which bleeds angels on manic swine
gathered below to
occupy
the traveler

one
she-bird
panic blown men of over secret cap
tiny on their hair
with glitter at my lifted trillions
their about-humility

Sally keeps her tight vibrator
she goes walking out
door shut forever
there's no one waiting in the wings

The "lost" untitled manuscript, circa July-August 2008.

Like china

see the beggar pass by
hear him plead for a cig
dissolves in the rain just like china

see the nun pass by
holdin' on to her red dress
not on duty right now
like china

see the meals bein' served
at the market's review
all hate on the plates like china

see the dead taxi driver
knife still in his back
roses still in his eyes like china

see the clerk sweep away
with a bunch of gillettes
and a smile for the lady like china

see the sun melt away
at the street's blue crescendo
gathered & broken like china

see the street plot its end
as it begs for asylum
where walls are as white as china

see the busker's hats off
to the rags on the ground
notice Buddha pass by like china

see the bus overcrowded
w/ the nun & the beggar
her hands scan for him just like china

as the knots get so tight
as the streets are alive
they'll soon be as dead as china

I've loved you under many different names

And I've loved you under many different names
at one point in time
you were Cynthia Ann Parker... Paolo Pasolini... lamplights of Paris... Blue Angel's woe... de Sade's revelation... the Lighthouse at Hel... poor Frances Farmer... vanilla black cigs... Sweet Little Sixteen... Fa-Fannie Porter... Parker's blue bummer... or Motorcycle Irene... or the Rose of the Wild Goddamn Bunch... Stan Getz's bluest note ever... Pamela or Jim... or Poker Alice... or Micky Mouse... or Queen of Spades... then Minnie the Moocher... Liza Minelli... Marlene's tight dress... Be-Bop-A-Lula... all Cracov's hookers... Sonya at theater's inviting doors... post-bourbon sleep... old Cohen records... Edith the Death Lark... Lili Laterne... snowflakes in May... lamplights of Poznan... Jambalaya... that famous black March... Jane or Brigitte... or Sharon in blood... or Venus the Black One... or Chuck's Maybelline...
so we've shared our places & smiles
& exchanged our ordeal
& payed no attention
& joined that restless blue cabaret...

became wives & husbands, masters & servants...
like cartoon characters, like cool cats a-yonder...

& now it's all over...
please tell me it's over

The true bohemian rose visionaire

let's start a religion - said the blind, one-legged boy to a bunch of pigeons...
let's make a start to something new...
let your wings bleed holy blood
let your eyes turn wine into water...
let the tongues be occupied w/ wisdom
brains w/ collapse
& disaster
let the brains walk on water you made...

& he said to a buch of mice... so tenderly, sweetly said...
let's start a new band... let's play on forever...
quit the poor band that goes
nowhere
w/ every next note
w/ every next rhythm...

let us be our street's oyster... let's cum on the new religion...
postpone it into millenia...
& he said to a bunch of hookers - you be damned forever
you be the snake on my tree...
you, in your latex and leather...

& let's do a cut-up of souls
said the blind, one-legged underage prophet
the true bohemian
rose
visionaire
to his true
blue
disciples

so we're One not right after death
but One right here
at the Feast of Earth's boulevards

no soloists included

White rainbow magick

I've seen a White Rainbow like raven's eye
crashin' out of her skin
like a mad priest
a succumb
a wall of fuckin' vision
or an Albion albino
at the eve of Light

she had Rivers in her hair
sunlight at her Bridges
as she bathed in all Glories of Goodbyes

the White Rainbow smiled
& the Morning ended

her Kingdom is not of this world
I sighed
and turned eternally down
to the spiral bindings
of a Sidewalk

No snakes in the room of the treason

No snakes in the room of the treason
just like no deaths in the room of the seasons
a child's kaleidoscope...
a tube test...
a sneak preview of sorts...
a ghost...
a blind old
owl
ghost

no snakes where the saints bein' hung
no hangmen standin' while the church bell rings
and covers my city all up w/ snow
a killer
snorts out
salvation
and damn, he's a true Pistol Pete
shootin' down ladies
at open mics

says:
true, we're all children - still children - die children
only the playgrounds got bigger
but the rules
they never
changed...

will to power:
obituary

& we still get a glimpse of leopard's eye in the evening
or a drop of our lover's blood if lucky
or something to change
for a scene

but still a part of the Buddha
still apart of the Buddha
& the church bells
are drivin' me crazy

Janitor sun

and the sun's now honey and flakes
orchid
tastebud
big bowl of possum
janitor
of night
drinkin' his tea
w/ the drunken actors
of twilight

a dandelion's
specific
angel

chat-chattin' 'bout life
let it pass them by..

the janitor shakes off
their
madness...

for the sun would never care
& the sun would never
write a
line

the sun has no time
for such
dim
offences
the sun remains where it's always been
five years ahead
or seven behind
the sun don't mind

we should all be alike
we should all be ALIVE

I'll start wearin' white
& I'll take off the mask:
let them rip my body apart

the sun is one & it breathes no fumes
no death
no mirrored
safety

the sun belongs here
& so do I

stop lookin' at my
reflex

April Thunder

soon there'll be no time for various indian summers
beads
spiders
& dragonflies a-plenty... soon we'll be much older
sane
completed
sadly
soon we'll dance to the tune of goodbye
& if somehow we'll manage to build an altar
it's not gonna be one
of our own
& our brothers will laugh
sisters too
makin' love in elated
obsidian
palaces of youth...

we'll sigh then
eternally sigh for the loss
& the loss will smile back
& proudly
march
away
cobbin' her webs of bop
sitar plushes
& dharmic
sonnets

our jewelry...

the japanese monk is never awake
neither is he
asleep

the threads of a soul are never his threads
& so the soul gets empty
in voids & gateless gates
of a mind
under god's eye
under
the
thunder

our jewelry...

Sara's Ceremony

& her body
Jewish
perfect
smells of death
in the river...
beads of dead tulips
larks in gore
or
satin like fire
workin' the magic
all nite
listenin' to Monk
as the wind dances by

& the fishes crawl out to the shore
like klezmer
go-go
bands
brawlin' out "Sara"
in longue fa-fa-fashion...
& chimneys
& soot on her winter
hoarfrosted
windows
comes to bejewel the

ceremony

(the stripper's awake in the corner...
one flake in her eye
the other caressin' what's left of her
skin...)

as ruby in the green
her skin-on-skin
begins

& to trace her trail or to be that trail
would finally make me
happy

in this or another

ceremony

praisin' every beautiful sundown
w/ knowledge
& mute
understanding
by Sara's
unwanting
side
dependent on the stars
only
& like these stars
eternal

Sketches

we're all sketches drawn upon her thighs...
all sketches drawn upon the soot...
sketches on plastic coffee cups... sketches of "sure", sketches of "not"
sketches on sun's etching wings... or moon's inviting cunts
sketches of panic on Paradise's door... sketches of lust
in dominions of fire... sketches of fire on ice melting sculptures..
we are all sketches of death... sketches of moths... of poker
of dim & incurable lies
sketches contain no essence... sketches need that final touch...
can't do this, can't offer a healing...
sketches we must remain... sketches of bedrooms, cafes, hotels...
sketches of streets, banks & slum... sketches of clothes...
sketches of beauty... sketches of sunset yellow
sketches of whores at the Mad Theater's doors... sketches of men
sketches of wolves... sketches of God sniffin' coke...
sketches of valium angels...
we're sketches of things we might be... poems we might become...
legends and myths we construct... sketches of kinos & concert halls
sketches of bars & madmen... sketches of whatever
sends them

Antonin Artaud

behind the pins of a face... rubbed... blurred
escapes... a million atoms crown the King
molecules dance on a million of graves
waitin' for several
ladies... the Court does not count... the Court begs of sin...
pain takes hold of my runnin' hands...
white as coke's parade - Nijinsky's finest
step
behind the nails of a face... a portrait of grayness
reigns
meat drops off... all atoms dance... dance in fifths
or fall for the waltz of death... that's obvious
we've chosen directions there, in the womb...
then tried to escape... run up her legs
like a cat in a fever, doomed...
offered up to the dancers... come and join the feast
like logic... a movie reel goes on forever...
doctor theater heals the wound
this fever always comes too soon...
the Court does not count... Audience's now on Stage
a thousand miles of hands - a thousand miles of snow
she chooses not to go
she, Antonin Artaud...
knowin' it's all over
knowin' we're all snow
he, Antonin Artaud...
& Cruelty's all we all know

300mg

forced my eyes to witness the ever passin'
processions
here at the point where concrete meets blood
& melts into 300mg
of Heaven
pumpin' still at the reservoir altar
dressed in flamingo feathers
& broken coffee cups
I sighed like a pussy...
she left the unfinished kiss
movin'
it hit the bus and passed on unnoticed
further into the vast radiant blankness
of stone
lower & tighter
persuasive...

how I envy her blindness...
the control she has is amazing...

it might come out of innocence
might come out of experience...

she always leaves me this way
with the 300mg of Heaven
still pumpin'
& the rider beheaded at twilight
forced to force his wild eyes again
and waste a single red
teardrop...

and "further" she whispers, "deeper"
insists
on my clinical need for wicked
altruist's last gasps...

well worth the effort
but not worth the passion...

she leaves me so limbless & prisoned
with the 300mg of Heaven
still pumpin'
& an old elephant story
& an empty goddamn
wallet...

& I wish I could wear her skin
yes, the right side of it
this time...

No setting sun endings...

No setting sun endings...
no better occasions
no rewind, no fuckin' fast
forward
no leap into deeper sands
or cactus on urban deserts
no smells of yours on
winter
dresses
no smells of yours in the bar

No setting sun endings...
no terror on left side of heaven
no heaven on right side of
reason
no tough men in sight
no changin' horses
no chokin' coyote's howl
no Americana true dawn

No setting sun endings...
no happy trails
no St.Vitus dancers
no Felina's cantina
no crossroads
no better time than this here
given...

No setting sun endings...
no parking breaks
no key cards
no Pollyannas
no Muzak
no prefix, no 580
no partnership in the firm
no literacy given...

No setting sun endings
no Eastwood still standing

Unsung

I'm afraid I'll leave most of my beer-sunken
smoke-tortured
womenly ravaged heartfailure soul
unsung...
I'm afraid the time's gonna run out faster
than expected...
I'm afraid I'm gonna wake up one day
on a long white table
before I have the chance
to write one decent song
one decent poem...
...and that someone's gonna say
"It's not him..."
and Death will fail as in Celine's case...

I'm afraid that most of my soul
remains unsung
when I sit at my table to write it all down
the words
evaporate
& rhymes are bein' butchered...

so I go for a walk & lose myself amid
ancient rocks
and I know that they're sung
just perfectly
out...

why am I not like these rocks
& why is the soul still screamin' for singin'
while its voice still remains the one of a mouse
not the one of a Rat
King
Street Swayin' Holy Bumness

well I guess it's better off unsung...
& I guess I'll leave it that way
& live one day among the rocks
& dance in my wind driven pieces
as one
w/ some Indian spirits
when there'll be no homes
and there'll be no coats...

Roses on the wire

let's try another lifeline...lifetime...hand pattern
skin fluxus
beard apostle
in the mountains of Russia
or roses on the wire...
choose another island...the island hopping's done...the inland
awaits...the island's wasted in your pretty hand...
your hand's wasted in the rising sun of high rise
unpretty
blankness
stuck out of a window like a broken wing
the unmatching key
Jehova's choir false note...
let's try another tuning...let's do some dissolving...evaluate
the sinners in us to make them work and smile
skin fluxus
again
and where are you really...where does your really lead to
is the hiway still crowded or the phantom cats
present...
there, in the mountains of Russia
lives a worthy old man - a man who's worthy to listen...
to shake hands w/ our makeshift eyes
fluid bone...
beard apostle...
or roses on the wire...
there's not enough water to fill in the park
& the ink's all gone in duck's danglin' throats
of tomorrows
like Stalin
or Nebraska...
so choose another island...pour me in...do me over...
stirr the shaken blunt imposter
the word-clown
the mojo
faker
drive me away...drive me away...oh, please
how I need a
savior...

Candidacy

skimmin' thru the blue town's hiways
or drinkin' myself to death at my lady's
poignant command
could I be the one...
I very often look into the mirror these days
but the bastard holds no answer
& it wears me & tears me & burns me up
& I know that the bottle's blue bottom is nearer
everytime I reach out
for my suicide's perfumed hand...
could I be the one...
& I've heard the death's trumpet too often
& I've been to hotels of rented heartrooms
& I played at the highest stake...
could I be the one...
& I've asked the Frog King on many occasions
did my singin' please him well enough
does he still steer my pathetic
efforts...
could I be the one...
while at Poe's deranged dinner I asked him
if he really meant it this way & Curtis was present as well
& he said that the tear doesn't hurt here
& perhaps I should really now join them
could I be the one...
& all the barkeeps keep laughin'
plotting their rumours of my drunken presence
at wee-wee hours, at go-go enchantress' place...
could I be the one...
kilin' the horses of discipline... one by one by one
flamin' their nostrils
& screwin' all Death's pretty hookers
bein' their most humble dog
could I be the one...

For another damn lonely trumpeteer

I can hear you cry out, brother...
it's 3AM, I can hear you well...
the cars are a-hissin' no more...
torn is the concrete below & I can hear you perfectly clear...
there's a friendly ear
for your fear...
there' a spy in the opposite window...
& I know why you torture her...
it is why I torture my giveaway pen...
let the clouds rest, man... they need some sleep, too
& the chimneys w/ their deaf hungover...
they need some sleep as well...
& the cats, man - hear them fuck...
c'mon... stop hittin' the damn blue note
at least for tonight...
I can hear you perfectly right...
& look, the dogs started howlin'
there's the audience - completed...
shit, man... I wish I could help you...
but then - you wouldn't help me, now would you?
you wouldn't let me be
w/ her
as you love her too
& I've seen her in your bed...
& I've seen her legs wide apart...
you damn trumpet master...
there's a friendly ear...
and a picture of your wife...
man, stop it right now...
man, cut it at once...
the moon's all sore from you blowin' the thing...
& I might find a proper caliber
for a fucker of your kind...
the kind that shoots me down too
on sleepless Poznan radio nights
& a thousand Sundays deep mornings
gentle
as
Mira's
thighs

I'm already not here

there's a raincloud that bursts out my name
writes it all across the stations
writes it all across the lanterns
& looks at me from a not-so distorted angle
pampers the lunacy vicar
wines him & dines him

there's a police car passin' w/ me all across it
& a hooker w/ her lips all smeared w/ me
& the guitar string I'll hang myself on
puts the blinders down
corrodes in spades
& snores

while I'm already not here
already gazin' from the afterlife
at this here example of a quite vital corpse
doin' some street tasks
fillin' some forms
of a never chosen occupation -
the one of a writer...
or playin' guitar after midnite...

so I'm movin' a sittin' target
& I'm sure it's not me - not me in this worthless
collision...
not me in this car-crash
not me - golden shot girl
not me in this cobblestone shit
not me in the whorehouse of Joan of Arc
not me
in the ranks of her army...

as I'm movin' a sitting target
I'm already not here
observin' & laughin' out loud
at the
outcome
whatever
whoever
it be...

Rioed

in the skies of Rio there are summer songs-a-plenty
so the short-distance tourist says
as he passes the slum and the barrio fever
these roads they are never on family maps...
these ulcers are left
outwiped
and not the song one, too...
no yacht cruisin' this time
bikini bitchin' burnin' death...

fussed anxiety in Rio's skies
can't measure with fahrenheits...
call out St.Daniel and Gabriel (again!)
you urban guerilla, you, drawn to the flame...
to no avail, to no rescue...
draw the curtains on yer machine gun palace
and split! split! spit...
clean up your pink palm glasses
darken the palm of yer
hand
be a man, goddamn, a man...

in Rio's outlined sky
pencil touch
vodka we brought in from some "civilized western country"
(not Poland)
or Poland
or something quite dim...

for Rio's thin dukes of remorse...
one for the angels (so well deserved)
& one for Jao Batista
Frankie
Cortazar
Madalena

I've lost my panama again
got rid of my Fidel cigarillo...

& once again, you urban guerilla
you're forced to admit
your
white
knuckles
shine....

Lung cancer waiting room

oh nurse, you're so nice... so whitely innocent
lily
of the
syringe...
sterile Dietrich Hayworth
your hands breed sheep all across the
coolish
dirtfloor
I've been countin'em all nite long...

"yep, that's three packs a day..."
that's 'bout twenty sheep per second

who's with me in this lung cancer
waiting
room?

who' shakin' hands w/ the
doctor...

"yep, I'm twenty-three
can't wait to be thirty-two..."
so the next year can be
Jesus
all year

nurse, I'm growin' a beard for you...
them pills are
finally
workin'...

nurse feeds me chaos
through her all-day-round
tv
like a pose is a pose is a pose

who's with me in this lung cancer
waiting
room?

I didn't laugh at all...

The promise of heart attack at dawn

The promise of heart attack at dawn
could in fact become my religion
my private
Amida
my hot line to
nirvana
the hope I'm in for
life
in the end
or a ganges for washin' me
down...

I love the cuckoos at dawn
guess it'd be nice to die in their
presence...
& the leaves look so pretty chasms
at sunlight's first caresses...
I pray for a heart attack
at dawn

& maybe a girl present, too
dark-haired perhaps
ashtrayed in sleep...

"I've slept more than you lived..."
says the old man - and when I turn around
he's nothing but me...

don't want to finish like that
heart attack at dawn's
nicer...

I guess I've been here in the 70s
& decided to quit all these
putrid
redemptions
or the dandelion
weaknesses
of heart

"I've taken more than you'd ever give" -
goes the old man again
and again I turn around
& again he's nothing but me...

don't want to finish this way
heart attack at dawn's so
iconic...

Amida, do save me...
Amida,
please do...

Limo death

Limo death's better than a
bare death
raw death
corkscrew death
still holdin' on to the bottle
pale on the backseat
on the way to the next gig...

the dumb chauffer thinks
you're still sleepin'...

limo death's classy & full of
redemption...
can drive it straight into the churchyard
let'em bells ring out all hell
for the retro style singer...

limo death's better than stealin'
roses from your grave
or virtue from your
tasteless
residents

limo death nearly resembles the sun
limo death's peaceful
& good for the lonesome
can drive them straight into their coffins
while no-one is left there
to moan...

limo death's full of speed
platinum
&
chrome...

while the phone from the manager's still ringin'...
and four mighty thousands
await the next show
at Tupelo
maybe

The valley that never makes it

I breathe in
can trace some blood
exhale it...

my skull is a whole different kingdom
the one where worms
have no access...

rise up to your brother
or drown...
young is the river & tempting the waters...

there are lines in these breaths
that will never
be read...

choices are never ours at these here
sunburnt
deserted shores
choices are never
hours...

hope is a danglin' blue razor,
brother...

& as the hermit passes by
the hermit looks back

sees scorched earth only
& nothin' to follow
sees his friends feasting on sand
sees biblical pillars
of Salt
and poor old Gomorrha
wasted...

passes by
to witness no more...

one day he'll end up in a valley
the valley that never
makes it

then'll come the time
to breathe it all out

Tastes best improvised yet still served cold

stand up
"Rusted Overalls"
the magician starts tellin' those dirty French jokes:
"April in Paris"
& such
& we all can't help but cry
& notice there's death in those
yellow rednetted eyes...
sweat on a black
beautiful
face
(that still can't cope w/ the
laughter)
forms curtains for fire
& sucks in the tempo
that's bop
but that's also
heroin(e)
for our Man of Birdlike Trumpets...
the bottom's bluer bottom...
the da-ba-di logic
of first note
arrival...
& we know he explores unutterized worlds
& serves them cold
while bleedin' out "Ife"
like readin' from a bad book
on shrooms...

so well-improvised
but not yet
improved
on...

"Ornette, Ornette where are you..."
one female singer
chants...
the chorus joins later on
in hallowed call-an-response
& that's bop at
"Rusted Overalls"
& we're all in
reading out loud
from our fathers books
& our own small collections
of poems...

I'm lonelier than a red, red traffic light

I'm lonelier than a red, red traffic light
nestled in the palm of my hand
like a birthmark
or a bar code
sentenced to the hummin' pallor
of pure accidental
warm
women...
& I'll only dance with the true one
not the red, red traffic light
stander
whatever blouses she's wearin'...

won't waste my time on carvin' my name
'twin the bloodsoaked
gore lip
unhonest as
beauty...
and lord, how many names
did I just
happen to have...

won't say the same thing twice...
will wrap myself up in your golden hair
strange
asylum
& rest for a while
as I'm lonelier than the dog's broken
leg
or the hair of the very same
dog...

& I'm lonelier as you'd ever imagine
when I punch my way up
w/ a ten year long
nostalgia...

like you're missin' but you don't know
quite
what...

and the red, red traffic light's so happy
like candles on
boredom
& the wax on your nippled
eyes

let's feed the night cats some love
they're the only ones lonelier
than I am

Yes, she's aware but still not beautiful yet

Yes, she's aware but still not beautiful yet
in the way that beauty can smash herself
up...
no matter how hard she meditates
levitates
or punishes
madly
herself...

all the pain she perceives makes her
hardly
sincere...
funny - she don't wear them black black
glasses...
or she don't wear them black black
punishment's dresses...
she's still a virgin in terms
of
belief...

and she's still a spring Halloween...

tried to breathe me in today
or coin me a phrase
or call it a day...

yes, she's aware
but still not beautiful
yet...

there still are some borders
her practice
can't cross...

Autosuggestion means autodestruction

when you can't quite convince yourself
to a value or two
worth tryin'
you stop imagining truth
and so fluently
strangely
become it...

one of the strangest at days
one at the day for the races...

and the truth's mice and men if you ask me...
the former ones at their chosen
places
while graves make a nice yellow shelter
for men's golden teeth
watches
&
wooden
flamingo
legs
& blonde shinin' wigs
of premature
burial...

or can askin' too much questions
to the beast's underbelly
make it go furious
all
about it?

that beast's your lord at his very best...
that beast
manipulates
being
so well
lives in the back of your still infant
head...

and you can't quite hold on to yourself
or a picture of your old travelin' shoes
or the family party
shock
value...

still the truth's mice and men
& no poets are really
present
just clowns for the ladies
quotin' their sources
& bums at the bar
sinkin' under the counter
or published pimps
of word servitude...

everyone's able to write, man
everyone's Abel
to
be
IT

File under fragile

my very first jeans:
what's written on papers still stuck
in the pocket

unchosen roads:
the panic that often preceeds them

destined points of
crossing:
the mistake that often defines them

stations of desolate trains:
why choose them for the meeting of fact

a kiss or a two:
and as close as you can rely on

her wide open legs:
and is there another kingdom?

what Buddha wrote on the Bodhi Tree:
never actually written

why the burnin' monk chose fire:
what about this one that died standin' pat
standin' right there
on his head...

how was poor Ti Jean's heaven:
never really experienced

why are we still searchin':
the answer's right there,
in front of your eyes...

filed under fragile
kept in fragile
boxes
of air

Upholstery

the wet chair in a warm room
perhaps enjoys her touch:
I don't

the rusted lamp's skeleton above
perhaps enjoys her shark gaze:
I don't

the wind in the dustpipes
rolls perhaps for entire infinities:
I don't

I can only hope not to slip too soon
& let Buddha's pupil
enjoy the view

I like the wind on a hot summer day
it soothes
like a needle

too much dust on this chair to sit on
& the wall's bare with faded already
neon

perhaps she needs just a warm room
I need a fuckin'
tsunami
to pinch black
the world

that's the only color that fits
right now
w/ Buddha's worried
little pupil

the chair I still sit on
invisible...

& my current remained
w/ the
faded
upholstery

Proud of what I'm not
for Klaus Kinski

proud I'm not a slave
proud I'm not a mediocre bar singer
proud I'm not divine intervention
proud I'm not Paganini
or proud I'm not Aguirre...
proud though I'm Wrath of God
proud of building
the wilderness
oper...

proud I'm not dictum for Oscars
proud I'm not jelly
like most men are
proud I'm not a pretender
proud I'm not a black
puppet
proud I'm not marching
in line

proud I'm not one of those
young lousy actors
w/ young lousy wives
& young lousy roles
in mansions of stuntmen...

proud I'm not learning my parts
by heart
proud I'm a poet
by heart
blessed be the days when I've written
my part
in the heart's filthy play
so wisely directed...

proud I'm not takin' the easy way down
proud I'm not hangin' round
imbecils
idiots
analphabets
proud I'm not acting out Jesus Christ
proud I'm one
every evening...

proud I'm not interviewed anymore
proud I'm not part of the dim
celluloid
mausoleum

so good to watch the butterfly
rest on my hand
the hand that broke all the mirrors here
tortured all life
& butchered
the love
to make it survive
in a form
that never
ends

"Surrealistas" (New poem, 2021/11/04)

nebulous yearning
purple whips of space
costly heat
like city towers how
in concrete apology
leaving faint open lies
to their toy touch
life futile light
like her looks in your mirror
till we all array

temples of
indestructible life
in life's secrets holds
the night face of lover
a soft placard postcard
a silver current of colors
charms
sleeps

doubting stars
fortuitously curled with light
drawing rearing bonus trips
her belly and the voice before
hot
remembrance

I'm drinking rain by my favorite window
the dew has yet to come

low „would” dawn window
high „could” dew drops

I think of forgotten planets
dwelling in their nimb of their distant suns
feeling like
a starship
galaxies and sexes not specified

bee stabs like mirrors
a yearning trade
room pealing sand
out of the end of language
or moon lips drifting
dimmed

the soft healing touch
the brim cold eye
of the original
surrealistas

"Pan Gar Jam" (New poem, 2021/11/03)

There is always a friendly hand waiting outside
of Pan Gar
a taxi sometimes
or a phone call
after the jam, 9 AM, I'm ready to go home

I cross the gas lamp streets like a wolf
ready for harvest
lambs are curious in the morning
where did I go wrong
my face says it all to the passengers of the first bus home
the last bus in this district

as soon as the FedEx trucks are gone
and couriers by chance
resign
this is heaven

shiny black flies
circle around my guitar case
shiny black as well
tight as her pussy in the mild British afternoon
but this is Poland
eons forth from the British experience

the still glow of the cities
I'm piping my way out of them
two ears of lore that straighten the Egypt in my brain
and her God is never
present
although this heaven could exist in ages
trapped in synth lines
babbling
incoherent poetry
for the city

she lights up the day like a cigarette
we walk by with the meat
we bought
soft and current ikebana
sure of our
all night conquest

yet all the lambs are deaf
and tape-ruled
their heads
dwindling
and zone birds
cawing
still in the shadow of their tombstones

"Ava Isabella" (New poem, 2021/11/02)

Endless power supply each tooth biting in
the silver of my sepulchers
I live there
to the stars
those are the centuries of her eyes

ava
ova
ivory calico eyes

and as I go alone into that great city lights
infinite crazy trees
red white glowing
the tiny unformed laughs at
whoever points at the highway

there - expanding tombstones
clean-all from above
squirms trampling of blue swinging bones
way outside, wrapped upon
a blinding frail beard
making Easter the fusing that knows burning
life and an idea of space

we are born in the dull light
and into it we pass

ancient Egyptians on shrunken white egos
about the growth tumultuous
by their coming thrust from stars
swinging on tenements
offices
poles of
she-ghetto

ava
ova
ghetto of the burning dawn

tearing leaping
along the windows
drawing overgrowth
of suburbs
infinite hinges
suction contortions player
strikes babble beauty falling
scintillant childlike pawn
clavering its multitudes
with her nightswerving threads
in the flame

"Sunken" (New poem, 2021/11/02)

Who put coffee in my acid
barbaric lyrics of a recent smash hit
curbstones on the sandaled parade
jazz dizziness, you crazy mother
your interminable flower

these days
I've no words
but drums Talmud stairs
back to 2009
when I first found this constellation

typewriter vomit
excuse me while I'm laughing
but I wrote you a review
and you sold me back
to the junk

my friend is a junkyard king
he plays his rhythm sticks
like a gonzo

along the multiplying
gold Yiddish
river
I sit
eating butter for breakfast
then butter with eggs
then eggs with butter

I must be lucky having so much food
this, and cigarettes
my new long beard

sipping the first coffee of the day
while
in colorless empty darkness
wholesale holidays
vanish
and as full of light as light
last sunken aspiring
they curl
just a snake inside
the society machine

ready to suck it up
destroy it
bulge it across the canvas
for all ages to see
its comical failure

"Reels of Buddha" (New poem, 2021/11/02)

He was a sage of Buddha
he taught me how to obey
the clouds
opened miles
of pilgrimage
held and knowledge
acquired of themselves
infra-red clouds
of close-circuited
discovery

alchemy
turn metals to expedition
ocean's insects
in superstructures, escaping
where have you heard of the ocean?
it's only a mile away
see it, touch it
become it

the moment you love someone
you're gone
now you're time
the chained now
the fool
feeling racing elements
of light-proof
life reel

Tarot
1968
the diabolical time machine
parks atop of the cathedral
nobody sees it
just children
toying lo-fi clouds
skipping news of the world

what about me?
I remember sitting on a bench in the high rise
looking up, and seeing Buddha's pupil
in the sky
in dials man could perceive
figure it out
we need to check out
the perceptible
must improvise
on
serious sitting rocks
descending upon our halls

"BBC Signal Zero" (New poem, 2021/11/01)

We danced until the morning, and the morning
after that morning and after
another morning
on a squatted cloud of secrets

punk is the only solution
play thankfulness on a sax vex
new suburban chaos
challenged
skin and task

we felt like a valley
in a Silver Apples song
or something out of the 50s
BBC studio
hesitation
signal of void
celestial planet
approached us

we tried praying with signals new
on the new disability
surface
our guests were sinning incoherently
they were weak
and pale in number

this must me moon, my lady
we talked like naive teens
we walked like
drunk dogs
puke on the streets of London
first bus
to the airport

nothingness sounded like
nature

pale-faced
dawn
smelled like cherries

her eyes was what was it all about
but a plane shielded them
had them in hundreds
which burnt the flame
not time
flight madam
visible
and consulted

"The Morning Flush" (New poem, 2021/11/01)

Flush your brain
read Lem
invent sci-fi religion
plant trees and flowers where bones were
build life where death manifested its flags
but not a house
not a center
just a place to rest

not another
cold translated country.
just a place to grow content
in synth and guitar improvisation
of the morning
first morning
on Earth
with wife

not another asylum
for sad gravity men
or kindergarten
for animals of the tundra

Pink Floyd on the radio
reminds me of my time in the military
playing punk on bass
with various
drifters

now
pure will
and human life time
clear in this Earth-light
with bop
stand secure

there are flowers
where bones were
so
skip to the syllable of birth

skippity-skip
no seed is important enough
to the janitor
flush him too
he's an obstacle
old and irrelevant
scratching his
bubble head
yawning