"Ghosts of Brooklyn" (BRAND NEW SONG, Lyrics, 2026).

Echoes of future knock on your door

Echoes of past you don't dare explore

Pictures of Annie and memories of weed

Sick weirdos running on fumes of dead speed

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

Coincidence crawls so you better beware

The last silver coin is no reason to care

The wasteland is barren and so are your bones

The dealer is calling don't pick up the phone

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

The air is so heavy it's murder to soul

You care less for fortune and masks to explore

You care more for the living but you cherish the dead

If only their spirits could fly from your head

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

"Pluto" - song lyrics.

Neon glow paints the Pluto night
Elephantine mama, a cosmic sight
Forget the savannah, the jungle's heat
This mama's birthing on a frozen street

No rumbling calf, no leathery hide
But a symphony trapped trembling inside
A million wings, tucked in her womb
Sparrows dreaming of a different moon

Ice shatters, a feathery peep
Tiny beaks crack the frosty sleep
She snorts jazz, a lullaby cool
As the sparrow army plays hopscotch on her wrinkled tool

No trumpeting fanfare, just the wind's moan
A million heartbeats, a symphony unknown
Cosmos winks, a starry display
For the mama birthing in a cosmic ballet

Forget the herd, the stampede's loud thunder
This mama's got a million chicks to wonder
Pluto nights, bathed in pale blues
Elephants and sparrows, singin' the cosmic news

"SATORI IN BERLIN (X-BERG SONGS)" - complete poetry/lyrics chapbook, Kendra Steiner Editions, 2009.

ZEPPELIN BLOSSOM SKY

I can still hear the train at the station
Can still see the kite flyin’ by
Unable to differ directions, now
Utopias real, utopias smile
My deja-vu girl looks through
her kaleidoscope dress and her marmalade shoes
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
headed purity, sanctity, too

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
As some boy learns to play his guitar
The old ones begin to settle the scene
Let the boy, too, win some scars

I can still see the giants in flight
Can still hear the gas in their belly
The beast that one swallowed old Jonas
Spits him out 9 o’clock daily
My deja-vu girl sees the make-up
Considers it fake, considers her break-ups
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed adieu, then be it, it’s fine

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
Well at night you can read by the stars
Suns of all worlds, of all ages to come
Like us must earn their scars

They can still see the beggars in time
Can still hear the whispered goodbyes
The words that echo all mornings
As the giants come over at 9
See, Jonas has fled from his cell
The prison his maker, his tester decreed
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed one night, like a thief

LIEBLING

It’s not all about my diplomacy
Your judgment or given free will
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
See it
His wife, her dog or me
Darling,
I beg of you
Be

It’s not all about a change in character
A change in the weather or Spree
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
Go there
Swim the canal and see
Darling,
I beg to be free

It’s not all about the sleepin’ barge
The cross or the coma or test
Liebling, forget me, resist
Let be
Or let me
Forgive all your best
Darling,
Be secrets kept

Darling,
I’m not a hotel
And neither are you, you’re a lodge
Very few people check in
Liebling, I need to check out
Take the express right now
Swim the canal at once
And rest, rest tonight

GYPSY BOY BLUE

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
The light put on again
Ain’t it so, Marlene
The light you’ll let conquer again
The one that’s always there
For gypsy boy blue, his tired approach
The only true lover you had
The only addiction to date
Gypsy boy blue
Comes precious tonight
But late, way too late

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Your eyelids all heavy with rain
Ain’t it so, Marlene
That „finding the middle ground” rain
The one you liked best
For gypsy boy blue, his vague romance
The only true lover you met
The only addiction you had
Gypsy boy blue
Comes naked tonight
But trial becomes his fate

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Oppressed with your sense of surprise
Ain’t it so, Paradise
That “losing the middle ground” plight
The one you made your mind with
For gypsy boy blue, so clearly exclaimed
The only invisible gift
The only true lover you had
One and only outside the game

DERELICT DWELLERS

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all quite the same, go, look...
Tryin’ to dance like swans
We’re always some worm on a hook...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to time
Yuppie conquerors move out
Derelict dwellers come by
Filling the walls with their lives
The leaves with colors of Spring
Church with the glory of Sky
Empty, you’d say, but look...
Now there’s really a God inside

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all like a prayer, go, look...
No matter the written word
No matter the holy books...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to ghost
There’s something behind this scene
So lean to the highest cost
Scratching the walls with a heart
The leaves with letters of death
Church with the glory of Breath
See how it’s, too, on a hook...
While the House of the Spirit denies

Love drives by a new razor
Love squats the Unholy Divide
As yuppie conquerors move out
And derelict dwellers come by

Love drives by any roadmap
Love squats the highway by noon
As midnight shines over the City
Its lovers fall onto the New

THE ARK

And it’s Shakespeare with a strap-on
And it’s Gracie on a Wing
Lurkin’ in the backyard of a Dream
Longin’ to be sacred
Way beyond belief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The blissed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

And it’s Bourbon with Baudelaire
And it’s Michael on the phone
Lurkin’ in the background of a scream
Longin’ to be wasted
A way to keep things brief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The missed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

Come, it’s penniless and bitter
Come, three pennies ain’t enough
Lurkin’ in the shadows of your cough
Longin’ to be lonely
A way to get relief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The quick

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

BRECHT’S PROUD OF SIN

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
In the stars
In femme-fatales stare
He’s guilty of all their affairs
All suicidal men
Brecht’s bound to be guilty of air

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of pistols
Shot into midnight’s shock
He’s guilty of all little Mackies
All jargon and all pain
And he’s soon to be guilty of pen

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of Lady’s eastern fan
Blurred into distance,
A butterfly splits in vain
Open hearts and dirty deeds
And he’s soon to be guilty of men

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

UNTRUE

You speak to me untrue, speak to me... like She once did
Or else you might only pass by
This house or any other
I’ve happened to occupy
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll leave you alone with your pride...

You speak to me untrue; you memorized your lifetime well
Learned to pick a proper truth, a right-on-target phrase
Speak to me untrue, your memories all fake, I can tell
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you homeless and bare...

Don’t try to fit my world; you’ll never do with who you are
You’ll never get there with chameleon skin
Lips very thin
Fake-colored eyes
They all mean to me farewell,
Aufwiedersehen for good
Without a tear, without a sigh...

Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you just with my eyes

You speak to me untrue, speak to me...  as rhythm fits
Or else the cradle turns
Your crafted trickery burns
And I’ll go last till you’re done
I’ve always been One with the Sun
Speak to me untrue,
I carry no gun...

You choose the proper facts only
Forever, untrue, on the run

TWICE BORN GIPSY
(for Roky Erickson)

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always been here before
You’ve been a hope unturned
A stone never covered with moss
Your demons were slaughtered at night
Your gremlins forever do play
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely on the way
I’m with you – not only today...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always seen it before
You’ve been a coat outworn
A shield for the enemy, bone
Your gremlins have pictures of beauty
You’ve given away those eyes
Blue and green, forever seen
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Livin’ twice the Dream
I’m with you – the Gipsy comes in...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Your circle’s forever unbroken
You’ve been the Saint Electric
The bargain and the token
Your sorrows have colors of heaven
Your words the beauty of skin
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely will it spin
I’m with you – that’s all there will be...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
And sing a Song for me

"Unrepeated Blues"

Well I'm grooving on a Sunday
And my fingertips are green
From a flight, one flight too many
On the London groove machine
And I'm thinking to my body
While I'm preaching to my soul
That an army of forgivers
Couldn't quench my thirst for gold

There's an alley in my city
Where I walked out all the blues
With a woman in her window
That's too old for hanging loose
From a corner of salvation
Throwing coins into the air
I'm a sucker for elation
And I'd like to stay this way

So I walk on light unbothered
As you stagger in the dark
While the fireflies keep floating
In my baby's wooden sparks
She says ain't no coffin big enough
To fit your box of things
Where I keep my poems only
You keep selling wedding rings

It's the scent of morning petrol
That might keep my words unsaid
But I never said a thank you
For the rhythms in my head
You supply and try immensely
Like a set of evening clothes
It's whatever, babe, you fancy
We are now tomorrow's ghosts

So you say so long my partner
I can't help but be surprised
By the way you choose your answers
To this inharmonious plight
Of a spirit once too eager
Now too old to carry on
For the bird consuming madness
From its broken earthly throne

"Box of Air" (2003).

Bring me plastic boxes, where I can put my stuff
Bring me my rockets, bring me my soldiers, son

Bring me plastic boxes to capture the unseen
Bring me, son, the bouquet of fresh blue stream

Bring me plastic boxes, to keep the truth inside
It’s too early, my dear son, to let it all go out

Bring me plastic boxes, to hide all my jewels
Make it fast, make it quick, don’t you be a fool

The prophets have told me once when I was young
That once the night will fall and Judgment Day will come

It shall be released from plastic boxes everywhere
One box for some water, the other for some air

One box for some fire and one box for some Earth
And other numerous boxes contain a lot of hellish pearls

Bring me plastic boxes, to count the pearls inside
The day is almost there, the truth I’ll no longer hide

Bring me plastic boxes, I’m sure I’m playing fair
Along with the forces of water, fire, Earth & air

of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air

Look who’s there

SMALL TALK AT BUKOWSKA AND LIBELTA: A poet in Poznan. - Poetry Chapbook, 2012.

“Krabo”

They say moon is the same for everyone
Streets are hostile or friendly
Nothing depends on your luck
You exist cause you’re taught to be handy

And in such rhymes and meaninglessnesses
I watch my friends perceive the world
their family, spirit, room – they make
photographs of joyous faces
while watching weather reports
from the bottom of a supermarket cart
they produce the trash
they later consume
and shit in the evening
their next morning’s bourgeois breakfasts

That’s why I scream to the same old moon, or sing, or write
on tenement walls
“krabo”
the only word ‘cept “samo”
I find powerful enough
to describe this toilet
called life
on Earth

“Poznan After Midnight”

I’m an actor turned hobo – deceitfully fat on the wealth of the city – sending poems to outer space on train’s smoke rings at midnight, walking to the engine’s high pressure rhythm – that sounds just like bop, if I were educated enough to know it, though now I am, only weaker – I grew tired, tired of river bank lovers, ancient chimneys and tenement stench, weakened by the load of death I witness every day while passing side streets, rural paths and railroad lines, looking for a place, a trace, a lover – but I’m tired of river lovers – as I said before, I’m a hobo, drunkard murderer and a million worse things than that – I’m older than the streets as you know them, and though someone put a stop sign in front of this body, useless heap of autumn-smelling flesh, I go on, dirty container of blood that could save lives if it weren’t contaminated with truth – venomous drops of fish jaw mornings on coughed out sidewalks force my phlegm to form poems, if you call them that, with bits of this blood, the juice I call my own, which will take me to knife fights in the docks, for a woman, a friend, whatever, and everyone will die on such morning, everything will end, there will be no tombstones, mourners or ceremonies – tenement lights go down – just the lonesome whistle of the first, welcoming brightening docks miles away, or last, train, bidding the city adieu – with its wealth and beggars and traveling hobos like me, me – who’ll be far away from death scene, riding the lucky train, laughing hungry with the heavens, cause I’m thin, thin as newspapers soaking in the slaughter of an oyster morning and last black and white cigarette in Poznan after midnight.

“When the Dawn Got Drunk”

Why were you sleeping
when the dawn got drunk
on freezing vines of night
pouring through tenement fingers
stardust women
placing bets
on drooling horses
drawing attention to dust
of pistol wings
shooting over the city
alit & bare
suddenly sure it’s leaking
nightmares into the void
of cruel electric namesakes
shining on bars
leaving the proof
of existence
on ghastly store windows
mirrors to hooker faces
loser matchsticks
bum & writer’s apathy
used to snails of midnight
creeping
over their work
why were you dreaming
when the dawn got stoned

“Last Words of a Famous Sailor”

Write faster than Dylan. Thomas, of course. How fast? How fast? The young poet intents to grab the cloud, moon, a solitary smoker in the shadow of the sun, whatever, whoever. He will never succeed. It’s not a matter of pace. It’s not a matter of talent. Who is it talking? Does my head hurt so bad, or was it just a suburban katzenjammer for a well-fed burgeoning scumbag. I intend to vomit. On your desk, headmaster, preacher, politician, pig. I intend to piss. It was never my, or the young poet’s, intent to write. Do it faster. You’re inefficient. I tried to draw an elephant in my cupboard, rhinos in a field of sunflowers, smiling, bathing in the yellow nimbus of whatever ambient music was playing around. Who put the tape in my recorder? I wanted to make, not listen, and act, not think, but schools changed that. I was lucky. The young poet grabs a cup of coffee from my latest mistress and chokes on blood. Pretending survival. I incorporate a manta into my pot mandala and float with it to kill the whale. In its belly a solitary smoker pretends he’s on the street, trying to grab the young poet observing him from 2nd floor window. Everything is hopeless, but the contestant on a TV show said amoeba is a defunct sailor. Guess he was right, or was it the acid I had for breakfast, including young poet’s urge to write. Faster! Faster! We can almost smell the streets you were raised in this time, if you continue at this pace and amount of detail we’ll publish your book in golden laurel leaves all across the pages, and we’re talking gold, as in golden archways of heaven’s dome, but you’ve gotta use these words. Heaven. Dome. At the edge of infinite quarrel, my mistress yawns and polishes her mirror. I am crazy. So is the intent I had when younger, so is the intent I’ll have in my death bed. Vomit. Piss. Or even shit. Who? What does it matter?

“Beatnicks w/ Parachutes”

Rust
gives rivers
brand new names
dust
shelves people
and their stain
rivers
flow
w/ brand new friends
women
love their
ramblin’ men

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

Landing zone
& who’d predict
wonders
that the fool depicts
angry
art
was heaven sent
angel
screams
his compliments

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

“Bone Yoke”

Seeds were already there. Fishes were swimming round, in sterile bowls of solitude, like plastic christs on judgment day, falling from the seller’s leper box. One for a penny! You remember dogs chewing on chink bones, music boxes swinging moog versions of rock’n’roll standards, flowers incubating in tar. Correct the wavelength. You are obviously sleeping on a rag of tiger eyes, sewn together they watch the sunset. I remember winter. Is it of importance, what you remember? Jobless motors of progress wish they were nothings and zeroes, but it is them to play the heroes when cameras come around on Sunday. Virus fingers type the void word. It is one word. What do you carry – the clever martyrs were levitating a long time ago, and plastic christs aren’t the first totems to fall – fuel that’ll ignite the fire, of what you call an apocalypse, revelation… who could predict the outcome of such a meeting? You were painting your women, I was writing mine, somebody told me our spirits might rhyme – of course, I never wrote this song, though this chorus remained for a long time tucked in one of my notebooks, with an accompanying note saying “slaughter”, and a phone number. I’m not sure who slaughtered who, or what slaughter was discussed, or who went to what slaughter, it only reminded me of Indians, people of the Maya, Inca, all the space-thrown tribes of earthdawn. And I recalled their words of bone yoke. Bone. Yoke. What do you carry? I am a tribal portrait. Complete with wristwatch chains.

“The Young and the Hip”

The young and the hip give thanks
to bungalow hosts
party pigs
lipstick leather belts
vomiting dawn on the world
reaching out
for another bottle of whisky
give thanks
to the wind that shakes fragile bodies
exposed to sun and moon
writing in tribal riddles
dressing in contours of sleep
furious, young
emblazoned
setting sails on sundown
drifting with sunrise, hooray!
screams of birds impale us
pirates execute us
sing us songs
written back when
the world was fourteen
give thanks
to the idol totem
thin on the TV screen
high on milk and vegetable shakes
when we were drunk on beer
cheap intents
& guardians
give thanks
cause we were there
for them

“Cotton Railway Blues”

I thought of a ride this morning, I was muttering through Pisces horoscope, she was naked on the bed beside me – we had good sex and talked nice, I thought of a church choir accompanying these words, if they would rhyme, they’d be perfect gospel, and I thought of the laughing priest who’s done my exercise today, over an empty page, or with an arthouse camera, stunned by the ripple in death bearing heaven – I thought it was going to rain – and if I were a bluesman, I’ll surely sing today, these words could work well with harmonicas jiving, or a bop song, with crazy weird pianos banging on a drumground of coke – I thought of that and a French maid I’d take with me to the railway, we’d work on the Pasadena rhythm, I thought of her lashes, then of the trees in the garden – what garden, asked the priest, and in doubts his debts were paid, no longer he needed supporting the skies, falling in flame anyway, on the day I was picking cotton – black gold picking for white trash, there in the orange container, drawn away from my thoughts. At last. Now here’s the big moment, whole world wants to listen – trouble is, I’ve got nothing to say but rubbish, rubbish I found while drunk or rubbish I wrote on a freight train.

“Bukowska & Libelta (1)”

Negro rhythm? Indian rhythm?
what are they doing in Poznan?
Polish rhythm?
Dock the rhythm
with the barges
French? Spanish?
Mix the language
with the stone
trombones
of our forefathers
space mothers
chalk sisters
coal brothers
What frame? And which
genius painting
needs one?
it is spread around
a few quarters
here, on the door,
there, on the wall
it’s sprayed from Bukowska to Libelta
like small talk
in the pubs and bars
around
in everything we inhabit
we are lucky to have such artists
Art? Art brut? What art? Why
art – and question me no more
for I won’t paint again
until rebirth
maybe then I’ll dip the brush
in small talk, brave talk,
slave talk – iconic volumes
of cave talk
and I’ll try to conceive a new world
outside of the page
but now I’m younger
than mad talk
and I qualify for milkshakes
at Wanda’s – nothing really special about them
only sometimes old sailors come in
and let me drink whisky
in her, I hear the rhythms
and paper knows no limit, like sky or brain
it’s clear, except for cloudy voices
you best learn to ignore: this is small talk
tycoons of death
their hands already upon you
way back from the cradle

“Hep Chord”

First bass note, numb, falls above the landscape of cymbals, walls are erected at instant, of freshly painted faces in war colors – death colors – pain colors, fervently aware and improvised on the surface of moonlit stairs, circling down the theater, and the audience is ready to listen, poets are ready to write down the night, scent of burnt potatoes, Joe’s grandma cooks above, if they have any smell, that’s the smell of this ongoing black, the black on Michael’s lips, the untold tale he yet has to offer, on the altar of sleeplessness angel, vivid break in character, off goes the drum. Shy solos follow. Was it a trumpet? Was anything “sounding”, “pounding”, “pumping”, or “screaming” – are screams necessary now, when they’ve become weapons of the mainstream, once silent in ignorance, now shouting against the flowers – and I’m speaking of wildwood flowers, bare before the wolf’s teeth, and the wolf in Isabel’s song was a rapist, nothing more, for she needed to be fucked right away. We’re hanging, can’t you see that? Hanging from the cliff of compulsory shells, naked to the wonder of creation, waiting for sound, but the first bass note is hovering, hovering still, and nothing really happens except the shy presence of piano and gentle waves of a trumpet, fueled by the warmth of a Negro's hand – a rare sight to see here – I shook it backstage, later on, and asked “what the hell were you doing?” “Shit, man… was just waiting for the hep chord”.

"Andy's Breed" (February 2016).

We all came from a white head womb
Gun wounded chest and Nico's perfume
David's dreams of savior rock
Kraftwerk's beats around the block
Tribute songs and galleries
Catholic nights of memories

Andy's breed, strange humankind
Curtain sized, a potent mime
Posed in front of Andy's eye
Licked it clean and said goodbye

Influences change like clothes
Gears of mannequins exposed
Queens of night, so masculine
Decadence once feminine
Everything got too confused
Dirty streets got overused

Andy's breed, strange humankind
Curtain sized, a potent mime
Posed in front of Andy's eye
Licked it clean and said goodnight

"Four Wicked Winds" (2003).

There’s spoil and ruin everywhere
And all the people act like nobody cares
Maybe they can’t see it, maybe they’re all blind
But peace and freedom today is so hard to find

There are many wicked people living right next door
Wonder what kind of terror they could have in store
Money is the king and weapons are his queen
War brings profits, and I hope you know what I mean

There’s apathy growing on every street
Or glazing with hatred at the men you see
Jealousy and falsehood, enslavement and crime
Like four winds blowing thru the world of these times

Four wicked winds
Blowing all around
Four wicked winds
In each and every town

There’s been trouble all around since I hardly remember
Many men taught to fight, but even more to surrender
The weight of the world entirely on your back
And nobody helps you while you march your weary track

So carry your cross to the Neon Golgotha, man
Billions waiting for the show, so do the best you can
A live transmission on every possible channel
Suffering sells best and it's exactly what they wanted

Four wicked winds
Blowing all around
Four wicked winds
Blew down your crown

Ride your motorbike to the very highway’s end
Where neon jungle turns to green and unpolluted land
Climb the tower or a hill to see the mutilated city
Concrete monster is gone, what a shame, what a pity

Four wicked winds
Blowing all around
Four wicked winds
Blew down your town

Rushing Madness Thru The Stars (2002/11/13).

Rushing Madness Thru The Stars

1 - The Bliss and The Law
Mountainsides are filled with fire
But nothing burns at all
Among the heavy rocking curtains
The Gods spread wide their call

The few who hear it rush along
Thru forests, lakes and seas
With full awareness of their blindness
They wait for divine bliss

To see the ways of universe
To understand the law
Which is not war, destruction, hate
But creation, peace and love

2 - We Are
We are the warriors
We are the hunters
We are the darkness
We are the brightness
We are our fathers
We are our mothers
We are our sisters
We are our brothers
We are one and everyone
We are moon we are sun
We are peace and we are war
We are after, we were before
We are fire we are water
We are earth we are sky
We’re impersonal, immortal
We’re the fact that’ll never die
We’re the servants of Divine Mother
As we travel thru vast clear space
We are truly born of stars
We’re the saviors of the human race
We are speed we are light
We are void we are night
And as our solar engines choke
We turn to glass, we turn to smoke

3 - The Divine Bird
A divine thought in metal corpse
Got no wings but it can fly
The roaring voice repeating “more!”
As counter reaches pale blue skies

White heavy thunder, god-like blaze
Earth is crumbling at its seams
The roaring light cries nevermore
As Holy Watcher blanks all the screens

4 - Space Chant
The beginning and the end
Once destruction, now creation
Numb and still, it does not feel
Yet it’s pure imagination
Just a thought of ancient lords
It ain’t nothing more but void
Not a person, not a soul
Living being yet it’s dead
No expression, no permission
Standing still but how it spreads
Just a thought of ancient lords
It ain’t nothing more but void
Rushing madness thru the stars
On heavy metal polished wings
Vibes and sounds of roaring freedom
Roaring wild and roaring free
Just a manifest of lords
You ain’t nothing more but void

5 - Die To Try To Fly
Dust of stars they say you are
That’s the reason why you stare
At cloudless skies each single night
You’d like to fly but you wouldn’t dare
Well I was born an Astral Flyer
You see me nearly every night
I’m the shadows you’re afraid of
I’m the twilight’s flashing lights
Travel thru the universe
I’m unborn and Barrel Style
When you see me passing by
Stop and see just for a while
You can do it if you try
No matter what they say
Break the shell undo the chains
And glide thru starry ways

"Written Word" (January 2003) - translated from Polish.

Nine ice cubes on a wooden table
In the vast shade of the winter sun
Crystal ashtrays and empty brown bottles
Inactivity
The chair gives way under my weight
I don't know if I weigh
The armchair knows (more than I do, I assure you)
Non-existence
The empty space of my skull
Echo in the tunnel, echo of emptiness in absolute emptiness
An echo of emptiness among rocky cold walls
Unreal spaces filled with the echo of emptiness
Imagine the echo of emptiness
Imagine a mirror meeting a mirror
What do these mirrors see?

Imagine nothingness
Imagine glass and smoke rings
Black, impenetrable stone circles
Imagine the landscapes of nothingness
Senseless thoughts and images from distant times
Songs of the Lost Bards
Madmen, geniuses, refugees
Imagine their mind creating better worlds
Turned into a nightmare, filled with echoes of emptiness
Imagine the endless regret and melancholy of the morning
Imagine their eyes - their expression
Ice cubes, needles, cellophane - whatever...
And imagine the hunger...
A cynical, decadent, serpent mind that was once beautiful
Imagine the day of creation - then the sound barriers
Immaculate vibrations of destruction
Imagine nothingness, imagine its bards
Imagine eternal winter burning your mind and soul
Ivy in your veins...
Free...
Empty...

The void is unborn
The void does not pass away
When you know emptiness
You will not be different from her
I want to know the void

I am the human obscene...

"La Luna Vera"

La Luna Vera swimming in my blood
Call her Venera on Aphrodite's flood
Show her manana and she'll never return
Peel a banana – you'll watch her lily skin burn

La Luna Vera melting down dreams
And when she's close to me she makes me sing
Call her the Sidewalk – neither skin nor bone
Drop a sunflower and she'll never get old

La Luna Vera climbing up town
She makes me sweat now like the kingdom come
Show her how lazy people are in her eyes
See the sun is shining and the weather is nice

"May Rain" (new lyrics, 2022/05/24).

So you're leaving in the morning
Waving spells of chorus chimes
Of a brave hurricane country
That's been founded in your arms
And you're thinking of new futures
That repeat the pasts and nows
Of a brave hurricane country
That's been ball and chain around

May rain, it's always the same
In May rain

Speaking of your premonitions
Life's a mirror of your dreams
Looking from the world's top mountain
Views are brilliant and the trees

Sing May rain, it's all down the drain
In May rain
May rain, it's always the same
In May rain

So don't fear the deadly arrow
Water shoots from oceans dark
Lose your fears and life is sacred
Keep it always in the bright

May rain, let flowers remain
In May rain
May rain, it's always the same
In May rain

"Love Lions of Paris" (Complete poetry chapbook, 2011).

LOVE LIONS OF PARIS (KSE #197) is the 13th poetry chapbook that Poznan, Poland-based poet/musician/songwriter A. J. Kaufmann  has done for Kendra Steiner Editions.
That is because Kaufmann perfectly exemplifies the KSE aesthetic: he is rooted in Beat poetry and psychedelia, he knows the important avant-garde traditions of the last 150 years, he reflects the particulars of his culture/region (and also such important areas for him such as Berlin and Paris), and he takes those elements and creates 100% original work from them, work that apes no one else’s work and that has a form and a feel all his own. Yes, his work can be surreal; it can have the post-Rimbaud rock’n'roll decadence of a Leonard Cohen or a Syd Barrett or a Jim Morrison; it can have a psychedelic spiritual exuberance in the tradition of Roky Erickson/Tommy Hall or of Sky Sunlight Saxon. But it’s always 100 % A. J. Kaufmann.  Having worked with the man on three collaborative chapbooks, and a fourth chapbook that was a joint work but one where we both worked from similar prompts,  I can testify to his amazing imagination, his devotion to craft, and his dedicated work ethic, even while living a lifestyle that would kill or sideline a lesser man.

A. J. has been working primarily on his music for the last 18 months, finishing one album and now working on a second, but we are fortunate that he took time out from his recording/songwriting work to produce the poems in LOVE LIONS OF PARIS. A. J. is a European Citizen of the World, and to such a man Paris and Berlin have a magical presence, perhaps the way cities such as New York or New Orleans or San Francisco or Memphis might to an American such as myself, and Kaufmann has spent extended periods in each city, living the poet’s life, with guitar and notebook in hand. Those cities continue to live on in him, even though he is back in his native Poland, and they animate and inhabit LOVE LIONS OF PARIS. Kaufmann himself explains the genesis of this work:

“Love Lions” was written in Paris especially for KSE and it’s got a strong music connection. One summer evening I was sitting and smoking in a cheap hotel room, thinking about glam rock, space-age poets and lost loves, listening to Marc Bolan and Tyrannosaurus Rex, sketching dragons in my notebook… an hour or two later I realized I’ve sketched something more reminiscent of a lion and I wrote down the line “I kiss / Drifting love lions / With a golden smile” which later, upon my return to Poznan, became the first line of the title poem. Most of the other poems were composed while humming imaginary words with a grungy guitar accompaniment, but the melodies have since been lost as we had no recording equipment, not even a laptop, in my room. Some of my friends think I used cut-up techniques to develop these poems or “lyrics”, but truth is I definitely stopped doing cut-ups last year. “Love Lions” is, in my opinion, a glam-rock version of “Siva in Rags”, with dusty beauty gone all shiny and chromed, with once dried blood now boiling to the sound of “All the Young Dudes”.

As always, it’s an exciting and fresh and dazzling poetic trip from one of the few 100% original voices on the scene today.

“Love Lions”

I kiss
Drifting love lions
With a golden smile

I blow
Ashen poppies
Crying clear and grown

I weave
A smoky song
Starving in the vacant night

I dusk
The crawling earth
Sing with the moon fools

I trip
Thru moorland stars
Immortal wild years

I watch
Blue darkness remain
Toying the fire hearted day

I sting
The noiseless clay sky
Love lions lay at my feet

“Vine and Starlight BAND”

My shell, my moon, my wonder
Gorgeous and white
Harsh torn fruit and time
You’re waves of bitter love
Waiting for the night
Letting me smile

You’re blind alone, my love is warm
I’m stepping down real slow
Hanging on your rocks
Clinking, darkening, gone
You’re full of stars and swans
You’re the bravest dawn

Glittering bodies squat my void
With night’s electric smoke
Fear and steps of a shapeless tramp
Sporting vine and starlight band
Discovering snow in his bed
My kisses on his hands

With the quiet tissues of wind
Statues of sand and the model sea
He owes it to the track, I guess
He’s never looking back
But he’s still an angry dove-child to me
I love him infinitely

“Dead Black Everything”

Where’s the night
The hollow crickets
Young thoughts wallow in the mist
Low souls still and weak
The free men
Monstrous flowers weep

Sudden knowing
Splashing glorious
On unchanging earth and foam
Master's milk that fills my cup
Nests the moon
And cloaks the sword

Broken chimed eternal one
You’re silver bees and opium years
You in ripened woods of chrome
You’re satin bells that weep the sea

Prince of hearts, the emerald warrior
Worth the mountain and the sky
Quiet moonlight, gone and trembling
Overtakes the evil dice

Gift to soft mad girls, a promise
Deep Arabian trumpet snake
Dead black everything, he cometh
Dusty heatwave cleanly served

“IRON SMOOTHED TRASH”

Your screaming heart’s just
Breaking glass in my room
There I dance, the screen and rope
Lamps and rain world view
Black I bay, I’m heavy birds
Captured in your tar
Silver slow, I rot and rot
Try a lonely star

Meet me under streetlamps
Happy packed down face
Ache and hate, I’m a million years late
Failed, in failure great
Smelling something climbing
What my body gained
Lovely one, the saw of death
Roughly I remain

Free line forms the stars
Body blazing lights
Stop the watch, recognize your foes
Become a glassy whole
Thru cigarettes and bareness
Driftwood, powder, ash
Windblown in pain’s moment
Iron smoothed trash

“Hippie Dream”

My face is dead, it’s a wasted whore
An eyeless cloud of futile blood
I crushed my name and restrained my soul
Drowned the prophet in me in a coffee cup
Was so easy to grow, even easier to fall
With a terrible shriek of ecstasy
Now I cough out fear and agony
And I miss the days of a naive hippie dream

I watched satellites and I cried for sun
On a storm night long like Sonya’s drink
I was stripped and wild on a punk rock stage
Was a cage of ruthless apathy
I was prisoner to murder, servant to lie
Obsessed with possessions, tortured with dusk
Trashing my mind in the endless flow
Of comfortable chairs crushing hippie souls

Bloody fireflies of death and forsakenness
Ate my soul alive, fled the earth when it crashed
I guess a little bit of friendship will do for now
I try to be your lover but I’m your favorite cash cow
You’re a theater girl, I’ve your words recalled
You gotta be perverse, if you wanna make it work
Take a long deep breath, it’s your chance to scream
It won’t happen twice in the hippie dream

“SEPTEMBER”

Death is a friendly bridge
Leave, everything’s ceased
Mingled with wine and loveless
September page and lazy windowpanes

Seas are crowded with pain
Soft as flashing waves
There’s nowhere I need to walk
The firmament is red
Everything slips beside me
All the men I love
Withered feelings laugh
I’m making the final step

To awake so strange, so suddenly
On a funeral long ago
The sky moans what have you done
For those already gone
To be alone on sand, so low
Aimless, whispered thru
Quiet, deep and done
On an island, watching you

Idiotic ships and paper clips
Crumbs of pirate bread
Endless was the day that cut me
When I awoke all dead

“MADHOUSE VISION”

Sneer vision dark
Snow these phrases
It’s a cabaret
Lions roared against the straight
Whatever I meant by that

Drinking god’s wine
Why you’re shouting
Hopeless case, you must be blind
Veins of Greyhounds
Take you nowhere
The unspeakable surprise

Catalogued or left alone
There’s the gleam I long to see
Perfect white in my heart
Merchant crystals on my lips
Shoes walk coke
And body spits

I am vast immortal steam
Age long deserts in your head
I’m still thinking of the red lawn
Yellow globes that drive me mad
I’m still painting lonely airports
Dripping shark sparks, wounded gray
Killing diet swollen cushions
In the madhouse where I play

“PAIN ROAD”

I’m on the pain road again
We go to the point, you and I
Just jagged wheels full of mud
Shattering the sun

I’ll give you this new-made ring
Try love a poor, ragged clown
The liquid beauty of sticky city
Could now be yours, divine

My bed cries on and on
Catch the wink, cause that’s the strip
Across the slow felt disgust
Against our sky dragged wheels

Against the dim and the waiting
Cold sank sun, cruel light
We’re holding hands and licking wounds
Trembling, whispering good night

Sea, the night flesh
Iron dew
Rain – a thought
No more

Face, dress
Thigh, silk
Tide, moon – a word

“NOISE OF DRIFT”

I retire to the black, to the great out
To the seas
Clear me out and beautify my dreams
Sun me up, I’m kissing death
The epitaph of words
Black the wave and thundering
Pagan drums below

Back beside the poetry fire
Single candle flame
Dark glass veils the angry face
Heavens yawn again
Hours pass, I feed myself
Indigo agony
Pass the cup, I’m racing death
Vibrant infamy

Torture stretched your pretty soul
Smelling sky, the low, the bare
Heart drained word, it’s laughing cold
Leaving black sparks everywhere

We drift in noise
Young and ice
These are our favorite hours
Dream crowds breeze
The strange visage
Anonymous rooms and plastic flowers

“VIOLENT GARDENS (PARIS)”

Immortal shadow drops from a common floor
A certain sweet taste hovering
I’m before romance now, dry gardens glow
Spreading tentacles of minor purity
Over bearded cannons like you and me

That’s her blood, moonlight alive
Paganini undone, just a horror face
That’s her dream, little eloquent bitch
Getting her kicks where bearded cannons play
It burns my life, madam, but I’m willing to stay

The town clock cracked, it’s forever webbed
In the prison wind, with the diamond fools
Violent gardens, can you finally take me there
Far from confidential eastern quietude
Where a fat French dragon
Is devouring my solitude

My heart is formless bones now
Wax lights strangling pain
Let me fade to crystal years
Warped unlike my fate
Candles, friends and wings
Kisses, tears and larks
Warm ominous void
Of Parisian eerie thighs

"Solar Angel Kisses" - selected song lyrics 2019.

Hotel City

In here the days float on like wine
In Hotel City we've got the time
In different scenes the ages roam
On cosmic vibes we twist the foam

The sacred goal is out of reach
So on and on the children teach
The preachers preach and reachers reach
We're all the colors of the peach

There's chicks galore
On the cutting room floor
And tides and sparks on cores
There's chicks galore
On the cutting room floor
And tides and sparks on cores

I guess that time does pass inside
On Alexandra's U-bahn ride
And someone smokes a big cigar
So lazy...
The streets of dirt
Where thinkers think
And drifters drift and alleys blink
So hazy...

Hotel City queue
What else is there to do?

Trieste Chicks

In the open door she's standing
She's reading olden books
She knows all the sisters here
In the Brooklyn neighborhood
But all I really want today
Is a trace of Trieste chicks
The taste of green grass growing
Is the one thing I really dig

Time is of no meaning
In this cosmic realm
Streets are glowing lightly
Like Sandoz in the Rain
And dawn is never fading
Madness trips the dusk
Sun is acid eagles
Circling earthly dust

Darker moons are rising
Strings draw underwater
Sisters of pure joy
Cosmic kissing daughters

Storm clouds over snow moonlight
Melted like sunrise
Floating over fresh ice
Streets deny the 9th mile

Solar Angel Kisses

Twice I walked the London town
Once on fools to taxi rounds
Rock'n'roll the bitter cure
I never cared for pictures' fuel
Time was drifting on my strings
Vibing continental pings
For my lady bright and fair
Blow so sweet oh winter air

Blowing like the final horn
Waiting for the Mayan corn

Twice I bathed in the breeze
Of my woman's bronze lit lips
I never cared for earthly things
Look out what your aura brings
Someone put me on a cab
Said there's danger straight ahead
I was thinking upside down
Solar angel's growing crowns

Glowing like the final chord
Waiting for the final word

Tribal worlds collide within
Atmospheres so far from sin
There I feel a bird in time
Floating, glowing all around

Solar angel, here I come
Message reached your earthly throne

Alptraum

New eyes shine on the prophet highway
New arms hug the American freeway
Roses bloom when you move your lips, girl
Tires shriek when you drive your car, man

Talking to nobody cause nobody hears me
Loving only love cause only love can free me

New dawn rises on the heavenly body
New stars shine on the drifting horizon
Silent steps on the stairs to wisdom
God creates what we call pure freedom

Music is pure key, notes so young and free
Soaring clouds so steep
Sailing oceans deep

Where are you brother sweet of Alptraum
Who am I, sailor strange of seasons

Kings and Queens of the Road

Life is better with a friend
If she has your soul and hands
If she has your eyes and lips
Heaven waits on seven trips
We have music, we have wine
We have everything sublime

We are kings and queens of the road
We don't care about the mold

Love is better when it's quiet
Time floats better with your talent
So we draw and so we write
We are angels, we are knights

We are kings and queens of the road
We don't care about the mold

Death is sweeter in a garden
Of Arabic female wardens
What's subconscious stays this way
This is all I've got to say

Pyramind

I walk the walk
I talk the talk
Inside I feel so happy
The city opens
Like a neon fist
I write it on my napkin

I don't know what's happening
To the streets I knew so well
Seems like all my friends
Are going through hell

Drone sounds erupting in the distance
King's clowns sweetening my existence
Good vibe carry the night away
Just when I thought it would stay

I don't know what's happening
To the streets I knew so well
Seems like all my friends
Are going through hell
Through hell

Echoes of a future past
Echoes of a past future
Feeling like a warrior
Outshined and so futile
Ain't no reason for me to just stay inside this dream
I'll be leaving soon to catch my favorite movie scene

Seven angels sigh
Crystals in the sky
Bowls of passing tears
In halcyon years
Future calls the man
Here among the damned
Death waves high its flag
Life reduced to red

Sometime World

Sometime world
Don't bother me
What realistic people see
Was something treated seriously

I thought of you in many dawns
And moods and colors
I spoke to you of many roads
And errors

Your constellation brought me down
On UFOs and crazy sounds
I often dreamed Atlantis tales
When green skies broke
And sound walls fell

We never spoke of why
Because or future
Perhaps the tracks we took
Will lead us further

I sometimes thought
Of olden times
And ashen lakes
On crystal pikes

Time and Miracle

When rushed I ran
And neutrons boiled
I stood barefoot on foreign soil
Canaan was far in sight and smell
But Gypsies told their stories well

Space the endless corridor
Love and life the only cycle
Soft eyes the only answer
Good will the only sparkle

And cards told hell
Some tales of gore
The queen sang tales
From mouths of sore
She whispered I am of no use
In houses yellow
Of living blues

There's nothing on Earth worth saving
Unless it's time and miracle
Until it's time and miracle

So if time remembers
An Autumn word
I would gladly trade it
For a Cup of Swords
I never win and I never lose
There's a trace of jazz inside my shoes

Golden Rendezvous

Lipstick on the pyramid
Shadows on the Louvre
Tires on the sidewalk track
Bitter fallen youth
Working for the other firm
Feeling insecure
Hope they're gonna cure my heart
With another you

Endless replays fall in love
Searching for the butterfly
Crazy games for crippled children
Take their lessons far

Energy enough for you
Super trooper star
Lebensraum was not enough
Something seems alright
But spiders always crawl
Amnesia is way healthier
Correction sucks in the door
Proves my heart is wealthier

Starslide shine day
Door day May day
Joyce choice starfall
Night breeze snow call

Evidence of breakdance
80s velocity
Dancers and romancers
Tell me what a pity

Pawns and Clowns

I guess I got lost in the streets today
And the pawns on the sidewalk had something to say
I tried to speak louder, I tried to be quiet
But silence was drowned and somebody said
Oh my god, what a clown
And tears kept on falling
From a cloud in the sky
While a pure solar lady
Whispered „never say die”

I think time forgot me
And so did the folks
But pale rural landscapes
Edited my words
And love was the weapon
And life was the bomb
For doers of good
And shadows of wrong

Atlantean

There's only one Atlantis
Pure oceanfall
And lovers meet there glowing
Where water meets the cold
I miss the tales of glory
Told by sages sweet
Who live beneath the waves
And call our heaven streets

Underwater love is true
And words are sweet
Underwater love is true
And words are sweet

Where beauty has no model
Except eyes icy green
That strike the silver fiddle
For Neptune's sunken dream
I miss your heart of wisdom
Weaved of pink sweets
That stream new songs of beauty
For old Atlantean streets

Kings of ashen times
Never will return
But tales of golden days
In poet's blood will burn

I sink beneath the waves
Reborn from earthly woe
I sing for mermaids young
Who grace my life with song

I am a stellar body
And so are you my child
You dive beneath the glaze
Of an orange deathless sky

Neptune

Practice what you preach
Colors of a peach
Simply driven lines
Sentences of crime
Supermen are dead
Souvenirs of bread
Hippie times long gone
Messages hit home

Vaults of father time
Isles of flesh sublime
There is nothing new
In the book of you
So rewrite your part
Try another start
Darling what's to do
Waves will swallow truth

The Day is On

Some people travel
Lightly on leaves
Greek sculptures draw their fire
As they sleep
And thank you for the sorrow and the pain
The satisfaction
Journeys will remain

Trash the door
Kick the camel floor
Light is fine and the devil screams for more
Will you believe when
I remain a man
You're hotter than a bullet in a tin can

Once I believed somebody took the drain
Until I met the story and the pain
We will remain

Book on book
Like tides have always flown
And I am blown
Like my shirt that's torn
Where people never die
And are never born
Seven circles around
Seven streets from home
Alright, the day is on

Walking Clouds

Clouds on the horizon
Tears slowly arising
Life passing you by
Love as wide as the sky
Walking clouds...

Storms circle the bright eye
Dawn repairs what was done by
Death and thorns on the altar
Stealing from gods
Walking clouds...

Seems like nobody is watching
Solar angels approaching
Vril ships of India, errors of time
Walking clouds...

Argonauts and astronauts
Ships confused and people lost
Art of skies and lullabies
I'm eleven again... crying shame

Walk beside me not with me
Try and set my spirit free
That's the door to fantasy
And doves... ancient love

Best Bargain in Town

The day won't stop, it's tired now
The sun is blinking upside down
He studies life and keeps his head
Above the level of her bed
Where posters of his beauty hang
And someone says, man, you're a drag
You know you need it upside down
The jargon thief, best bargain
In this town

Coffee costs a trip too much
And I hate stardust fake blue touch
I copy things and try my best
To put my fingers to the test
Where earthly creatures stay to rest
I tie my bones to Medusa's mast
How dare you call me a dirty clown
There's life of panic all around
And tears are falling from your gown
Still I'm the best bargain in town

I try my best to stay the same
And leave the life of tears and pain
But Dalai Lamas can't complain
He's wiser

50 million Buddhist monks
Praying in the rising sun
Can't help but turn around in frown
It's over

And someone cries a dragon's tear
A pretty lady that's so clear
And pure and wise and she's alright
My baby

She always has some work to do
Down on dirty avenues
She's never been somebody's fool
So pretty

Her tactic spoils the preacher's son
Best bargain in a miner's town
She's prettier than the rising sun
It's London

To Survive

This is not my kind of scene
Psychic warfare and Vaseline
Roaring tigers and rock machines
Drugs as fuel and men obscene

I just need your love to survive
I just need the smell of your eyes

These are not my kind of dreams
Nightmare shocks on terror screams
Lady dune on poet's wings
Women bards, electric schemes

I just need your love to survive
I just need the smell of your eyes

These are not my kind of pipes
Hashish smoke, jam session nights
Munich kisses in disguise
Poor Ursula selling lies

I just need your love to survive
I just need the smell of your eyes

No TVs

Yawning clown don't bring me down
With your talk of fallen gowns
Try to focus on your dream
With a big cigar of steam
This is living cabaret
Be yourself but place your bets
Wish I was a party beast
On a freight train headed east
Bringing thoughts of love's rebirth
Upon lands of war and filth

Don't you play your hand game, pawn
All I have for you is scorn
Brought me down so many times
In the hiss of Buddha chimes
I don't know what's sweet and free
In your TV fantasy
Camera eyes on me they stare
I don't know who's really there
Lyrics aren't my concern
Free them from the forms they spend

Rock'n'Roll Office

Everything served on time
Every note, every rhyme
Every lover in my bed
Anything those lovers ever said
Ants on pages full of dirty pants
Definition of a rock'n'roll romance

Rock'n'roll office
24 days
Working for a penny
Changing my ways
Thinking of a lady
Pure as daybreak
She's my golden rider
But I think I don't deserve her

Every car repaired at once
Every engine sent to the stars
Every star a light of its own
Every saint and sinner moans
Dolls on pages full of empty calls
Definition of a mountain rock'n'roll

Every stone cast twice to roll
Every door once opened to control
Those behind the hurried sleeping wall
Baby don't you try to spell the word
Everything you get are broken worlds
Baby, that's my swirling rock'n'roll

She Brings the Sun

In the rain when the day is done
She's my girl, she brings the sun
When the mushrooms disappear
She appears and has no fear
In the moonrays of the one
She's the clouds that brings the sun

She's a rainbow Gypsy ray
Without pain and without death
When she smiles around the void
She's the light the blind avoid
Poets old and poets young
Write of how she brings the sun

Dervishes describe her moves
She's the time and lips of truth
When she lives she makes me run
Walk her long, she brings the sun

Dawn Birds

Dawn decides for you, baby
Interests explode
Dusk denies the filter point
Reality corrodes
Someone sings of broken pens
Virtual and frail
Deviants of frozen pearls
Decorate the days
And if you say alright, baby
I won't ever deny
Cause you're as pure as sunlit snow
In the summer sky

There's something in the way you are
That makes the twilight shake
And someone in the neon flash
That turns the night to flakes
And if we're done with starting points
Beginnings drawn from scratch
Well we could fight the evening joint
With one more swollen match
Then we could sail the frozen sea
Across the brilliant waves
And try a bigger, softer touch
That could describe our fate

The beach is white and phosphorescent
And time is of no meaning
I can't hide I'm inspired by people
And there's no deep trick in it
So I love everybody like I love myself
And there's no love within me
At least that's what I said
When sails tried to receive me

Cosmic Belief

Storms can't hold me
Eyes are lonely
Birds are flying home
Tears are falling
Tears are failing
Streets of endless dawn

And I believe in you
And I believe you too
And you're my guiding light
Throughout the cosmic night

Seas contain me
Vision fails me
Drawing tracks on snow
I am cursed now
But am free now too
And that was my goal

I could offer you endless satin
Sapphire and velvet blue
If I were to choose Arabic foam
And heavy horses too
But in the streams of camel's eye
Prophets lose their trails
And then forget the taste of you
Behind the falling snails

Mystics think they lost their mind
Heart and spirit and soul
This is poem number 6 thousand 1
On blank asylum floors

Brightness guides me
Darkness fails me
Seasons try their best
To change my mind behind your love
But this is not a test

Swan Balloon

Life surprises me each day
While you sleep
Dawn denies the sleeping hand
While you weep
So I go into my room
And bang my drums real loud
Dawn surprises me each dusk
When the sun goes down

And when it goes up
I get on my dream machine
If you know what I mean
Take things slow
She told me, man
There never was a bigger plan
There never was a day too soon
So we could ride a swan balloon
And sleep...

Love Was Deep

In the distant hum of being
Someone told me child
There is nothing I should fear
When the tide goes wild
Sin will always cover me
For the things I did
Peace will always guide my way
Back when love was deep

Years will never mend my soul
Heart or face or ass
But I can stay forever young
Living half full blast
Just remembering tired faces
Makes me wanna puke
Love's for living sandy vibes
Not orgasmic nukes

6 song poems 2016

Low Rise

Mask to task
illusion to confusion
break to make
intelligence to fragrance
flowers puke
pollution of their dukes
punks on speed
and rape on summer seeds
test to blast
death rising on horizon
mushroom shape
of children saved too late
do you stand
with orchestras of doom
on one too many plated
teacup afternoons
taste to waste
my bloke to telescope
high rise block
cold future aftershock

Ozma

She's a free zooming bird
zoo specimen
destruction dust devil
on routes to zones well damned
when she passes death's tune
to tongues twisted young
Chimaera and the Hydra
trapped in monastery gong
she's a cage ripping plant
double sunrise cry
creation fluke tornado
flake-fall of dry skies
I tried to air her frequency
got gagged and judged so cruel
before I crashed my aura
and drove my pain to school
I portrayed endangered species
trapped in ambers of her eyes
and then the sunset radio
cut off everything that's shy

Grandma Universe

Yesterday's beat
corpse on concrete
tomorrow's soul police
revolution piece by piece
atomic fireplace
to burn your nuclear chairs
escape the incident
provoke the accident
saint of karma sleeps
with cyborgs on his knees
dead rats and radiation
electric current action
you're wasting time perfectly
bohemian repainted Elvis
you've entered church of lice
the monks sing vile mice
release the upper hall
give grandma space a call
just treat the current well
and wait for rainbow spells

Astronaut's Intuition

Yellow crayon margin
notes on Berlin cool
doves and dandelions
fill the writer's pool
there's only one waiting room
you're waiting out of turn
a psychedelic mirage
that makes Africa burn
years of LSD attempts
there always was one chance
but your brain doesn't want to return
and your body's just a stone sculpture
where your frozen head
wrote the last letter home
from a journey of its science-fiction
it's astronaut's intuition
seeing stars explode in fruition
yellow carbon coffin
a narcoleptic oven

Kiddo Demigod

Window lover
dawn dawns turning
punk rock kiddo
writing „sure thing”
spray-paint heroes
gone drifting forever
sewer tastes much better
when it's shared
so, dear kiddo, you should care
wind up the pure love level
collecting raindrops in spades
milky space
expects no answers, brethren
accepts no credit cards
when it's time for you to die
future's demigod
escapes in Dada fog
to anywhere's home bog
on the corner
and the winter's suddenly warmer

The Rider

Voice of the morning
on palm suite island
breath of adventure
under the wild hand
and sex wind and jazz bands
play carefully on
into the damp dawn
with tropical aura nearby
we're asking you to be polite
flutes approaching warm sands
here where lotus kid stands
and rider deathbed listens
to everything that glistens
a peaceful celebration
of love above the nation
in candy rivers rolling
through countries fresh but falling
nobody wants to drive her
oh she's the fateful rider

Cosmic Cinema

In the cosmic cinema
Planet Earth in rear-view mirror
Smoking cigarettes with god
The view couldn't be clearer
Dancing light through Saturn's rings
Drunk on sun and weather
Satellites in altered states
Sing this one together

On a stratospheric globe
I am swimming backwards
Astronauts receive my songs
Flutes and drums of badlands
Speeding up the Milky Way
High on weeds of treasure
I am now becoming one
With the universal pleasure

You are a lady bright and fair
You have Atlantis in your hair
Your fingers reach the inner sun
Your brain forever on the run
You guide my way through distant stars
You are a flower wide and far
Your pillow wind of darkly daze
Is like a pearl of winter haze

You whisper:

Run away, run away as far as possible
Just go back into yourself
Nothing else could have happened
And you can only give up once
He doesn't give up when the sun rises again
I do not give up when it sprinkles heavily from the sky
When the storm hits lightning
Because we're really still just alone

Poznan Beatnik Angels

You get to meet them at jam sessions
Their fiery bodies dance French lessons
And you'll become their new obsession
Once you play your guitar
You'll get really far
Poznan beatnik angels
Singing „gimme danger”
Loving little strangers
From beyond
The zone
And stars

And the starship is now landing
In a golden field now standing
Where the city once was bending
To a Moog lullaby
Once you show them the sky
Poznan beatnik angels
Will fly away with sages
Loving every age of
Mankind
That's a rare, rare find
And mind

Flutes in the distance memorize everything
Children in the steppes learn to sing
Flutes in the distance memorize alleys long
Once the beatnik angels start to sing their songs
From a high up cloud
Things are getting loud
Fly away, fly south
Poznan beatnik angels
And poetic mouths

Join hands
God's plan
Everything's complete
Share love
Share joints
There's lots of wine to drink

You meet them at jam sessions
In the morning they're gone
But the evening quick French lessons
Still sound strong like a gong
Until you're proven wrong
Or ready and strong

Join hands
God's plan
Everything's complete
Share love
Share joints
There's lots of wine to drink

Opal

Your lips
Like butterflies in daze
You're a haze
Of hips
And kisses late and lazy
Starlit bronze and sweet

Opal
If that's your name
Opal
Will we remain
More than casual refrains

Your stars shine above me
I drink them with a straw of clouds
I'm proud
To have you love me
In this moonlit bar
We call Earth
Or rebirth

Opal
If that's your name
Opal
Will we remain
More than casual refrains

I miss your touch in the evening
But in the morning we go travel
And moons in your navel unravel
A cloudless sky
For me to gaze upon
And later maybe fly

Through Opal
If that's your name
Opal
Will we remain
More than casual refrains

"Big Beat Hearts" - complete poetry chapbook.

Russian Blocks in the Middle of Nowhere

office pop diggin’ erect
dancing on a comet –
dust tentacles glitter
pale lobotomy & acid, sucker
motor
Fiats
levitating
in the Autumn
sky
village scoff pushin' dawn
you can
shoot
it
w/ your ears wide open
& watch
your skin
turn
a cold war
shade of
amoeba
nuclear glory condo
burnin'
like a redneck
barbecue
quite common now
in these geographical
circumstances
someone sold us
this Western dream
where intelligence
is only part of
an agency's name
not a
human
state
we don't need no
intellectuals
you should all
be in prison
or in
psychiatric wards
Stalin
knew
how to deal
w/ you

industry
builds
like an
octopus
it's an insect
invader
office girls standin' in defect
where someone built
blocks in the
middle of nowhere
if nowhere means
fields of corn
& a few huts
in the middle
of
Russia
or
Arkansas
or
this
place

Bea

with a tepaphone vegetatory call
weakness for French
solar tea
pink sunglasses
various lipstick colors
cut ups, she transmits now – sun
within whose over life fools?
girl way strip minute
snake strike liquid to colliding shapes
 dark how again
 was away, muscles marked theremin
music
from the dark side of the moon
while Bea
by many man more
considered
the bird-like startled blue-catching starlet
sense moon signs of “so I am!”
and, so she was; someone by whom you know narrow
paths to
desire crushing answers
spontaneous, times not these,
just excited but which me?
the one she captured?
 everyone except Charon
on board!
there's a funky idea we have
for your old, flamboyant id
where
acceptance sighs dry
bare and pink when violin debts
over valuable hells
of your childhood
just remember me and the music we made
while everyone thought it was
love – to describe you
is useless.

The Festival

You’re a star child roaming free
You’re the song of life
…
Speak the truth and glow like sun
Get rid of ego’s pride
…
we gathered here to sing and harvest soul, freedom where wings of it exist
in retroidyllic dreams
on love’s white tide over acid skies
naturally garden high
skull highway to the sky
…
from freedom in our skulls, slipping from the stage we’ve built
jumping from Jupiter sky – down…dawn on sunset
in our hair, brilliant spheres, down, to photographic rain
half a million people danced, or more, beautifully stoned
but no one’s really there
or was where
we dared to dare
sift
phonographic sands
with butterfly brains
…
Join us here in pearls of rain –
you’ll never be the same
…
Pity sad souls wasting daybreak
For pain are they to blame
…
in freedom’s dream and love’s white tide we began to sing
of mountains cold’s live days’ galore
where everything was green
cops memorized a million deaths
we survived before
may no fear invade your heart
even when you walk alone
…
younger, bolder, truer than
all the old lies we’ve been told
no need for new revolutions
at the festival
…
no price tags on clear blue sky
sun bonfire or a pyre
find your own Satori there
in it thunderous morning skulls
conspire

Big Beat Heart

some vile movies
poor quality tapes
ripped from the head of the paradox

they fill a jug of Polish flowers
Polish bells
Polish books & records

we improvise like always, on their innocent
magnet, mazed & incoherent beer rave
tired, stoned, but serious
writing poems
about the beefy child skull fabric, fed luncheon meat
& religion
on top of which
all trippy sinners
find peace in a local church, in tranquil boobs of sport, in parks
or I don't care where, but elsewhere
& forget about
art & god
watching football games
Eurovision
birthdays

music fills the backbone silence
w/ acoustic currents of disaster
but nobody's listening to the groove

instead, we sculpt crazy haircuts
repetitive news
& death
in funfair mirrors
distracted by video angels
soaring high in prime time
exhaustiveness, over buttons to push
& ads to skip through
meaningless
slave corporate lives
worth not even half the dirt under your fingernails

someone steals a candle
from debt orchard
a smile
from a policeman
& moves on

a killer
thinking he found me

dressed up in books he walks on unnoticed
through bone pulp
wilderness
broken
heartless frames
stained w/ morning rain
& into my
big beat heart

Sky-Trotter

weed animal breed collect inspect the seed
which should be grain but we're
out of
anything real, organic/with parameters/
so, we feast on red sick weed, oceanic
nuclear tweed
of future tribes injecting this poison
direct
lie, ly, sing syllables of death
while you still have time
to voice them in an unfree void
of picturesque torment atrocity
heed, ascend, but heal, descent
from high orbit safe rooms
and witness whatever
this planet still has
in store galactic markt
for the tiny
sky-trotter
inside us
customer
of Earth Zoo, dying
in piles of clothes
sold burning.

We Don’t Dance

We creep past the U-bahn, bend under lights
Sleep in the cafes, sentimental dives
Keeping what is ours always in plain sight
Virus of our liver, sugar of your eyes
Speed all over shady alleys, slow real tide
Life is not just rhythm, death is not a chance
This is why we’re underground
Writing when you dance – and we, we just
Romance – revolution’s trance – the Dalai Lama
Whorehouse, general’s fireplace

Reading Bild in the shade

antediluvian cities
erect sax
in the jungle
beyond the narrative
there are no confessions

deadly alive
the realistic rover smiles

sulky soma of awakening

every soul radiant

flames of your burden on a train
struggling notes
struggling to play in tune
sounds blessed on plain joints
coffee in the bass crater
where you should
only
make noise
noise
more noise

what have you done to my daytime?
reading Bild
in the shade
survivatory
sullen
throat space

singing:
we're reading
Bild in the shade

controls shine softly
where sun once stood
where we had no difficulties
with language
towering sea experiments
& ambrosia women

now we just listen
to Prince
& fuck 'til life
& everything
we touched
is
forgotten

Narcocorridos

Iza finds German noise tapes for me
recently
from Mexico
came a bonus of drug lord chansons
she took back home
from the latest trip
sung heroically they describe
the taste in my mouth
when I write poems
it's nothing close to death
or drugs or earth
but heavens localized tripodically
among my eyes, and in front
of the third one
that I gaze out in to search for
narcocorridos' plot
it's similarly fragrant
and vagrantly familiar
brings back echoes
I could draw on Greek monuments
instruments
from back in time
when she found the first German
noise tape for me
and it'll take me 30 good years
to listen to everything
she brings to my attention
but
oh, it's the cops outside
must be looking for me
they always do when the winter comes
I've got to sleep roomless
in case of another
frost bite
clotheless
in case they want to
talk me warmly
in.

Raja’s Blues

You know Raja’s got the backbone, got the frontbone too
He got blood of alligators and a case of hoochie-coo
And he’s pale like morning sunlight, faster that any known light
Sounds good without any amps, fake reasons to survive
White volume and electric keyboards will never crowd his floor
Smaller than an ant, much greater than the world

Raja’s got one morning ahead of you and yours
All you’s got are curtains, he controls the doors
Domino demons in action, carpenters of fact
Seldom shares of kindness say that Raja’s love’s a mess

Change food for corny daggers, originals can’t confess
Consciousness of guilty paralyzed with death
Fear sleeps in your rearview mirror, where Raja takes a rest
Bathed in bubbled certainties, fortunes of your wooden vests

Raja’s got ladies by a million talking and walking the blues
He learned it before you painted him white, or repaid his sacred dues
You can pay for Raja’s thoughts later, after he’s done with atomic clouds
And former space age clowns

This Place is Full of Crosses

wait, babe
I never carried crosses
unless ’twas the Southern Cross
light & light years ago
sowing humanity on
distant planets
ghastly big stepping stone years
of death-rebirth
mistakes
&
accidents
messiahs
&
madmen
Jesus was a schizophrenic
that's
all
today he'd be simply
diagnosed
& kept safe
in a room

but this place
is full of crosses
and endless crucifixions
Nova
style

supernova

they like their things big
bigger boys
need
bigger toys
& clone-children
& evolution
& macho
meat

this place is full of crosses
you wanna stay here?
make pretty pictures?
talk religion
& crap?
go on
but
without
me

I'm a schizophrenic too, like
Jesus
so, I must be
on my
way

greetings
from a
room

Shapes of Love (To Come)

while you're waiting
we define the process
becoming the becomer
welcoming the welcomer
in shapes of love, to come, visit
leech deal
happens daily with fresh clean
hands; lynch happens on Sundays
sheltered in church bells
I hate hearing then
but hey, in the shapes of love
there's no place for them
luckily, no other music, but
tropical bird songs, is allowed
in my apartment now
I inhale the fresh winter cream
air as soft as coffee
Bea is loving to make love
to come, for us
in those shapes no deal is scary
and I sign everything, trembling
just for love, for money, for
rent, for sale, as always, in corridor
of black stars mirroring white holes
universes' energy merging
collapsing
eventually
forgetting all was us.

Dancing with the Early Stars (Me, You, Ah Pook)

I can’t stop, I’m never waiting, never wondering how or why
Living like a firecracker, dancing with the early stars
If I had another promise, if we had another land
Hopeless, cruel and wasted angels climbing up the human grave
Wings of panic, sounds of shelter – undemanding desert calls
Hear her wisdom, hear the ages – to the highway’s end you go
I can’t stop you, I can’t teach you, I can’t be your midnight guide
Cannot take you to the night’s den – hungry lions suck in your sight
Desire is vision is god, the theater, the actor, the eye
Stage dust settles down, performance is passion is blood
Me, you, Ah Pook

Gemini

I eat pickle
drink sour old beer for 2 zloty
in a Jeżyce gate
where dawn is burning pink &
every cloud is perfect
she says
„I'm fresh
& clean
so trouble me
some more”

but I
don't give a fuck, take my
beautiful Fender out of
its case, finish my beer
& play cantatas
for sky

my Georgian friend says
flip your life record
to B-side
but there's same old blues
on both
sides
so why
bother
when I can listen
to „Summer Wine”
and dream of
Natalia
ad nausea

backstage
I'm even more stoned
than on records
& crazier
than her clarinet razor

we murder Bach
talk birds
I get me another beer
someone's laughing
in the backyard

it's a nice bar
I must've left all my
troubles at home
but they'll come back
eventually
and she'll say
„I'm Gemini”
in the morning
pissing me off
even more

cause that will be the truth

Pink Planet in the Sky

game one
soft words
a single wolf cry, same cat walking
daybreak street
a distant drum pump
sweet scent rhythm pool
in forest
a child on a swing, in death park, coughing
while I smoke
winter/summer together less
walking desert illumni
rearranging structures of breath
speaking sparkling the rhythm
painting spray sky over
with mute approach
to languages leaving
packages burning
passengers lifting
airplane toxicology
from under pink planet in the sky
I watch plane's wing
until sky is the only
word
with
morning freedom
in shy sky sun
ascending over
Earth
while I am
not watching.

Ghost Bus

Take the tenement trail they’re already razing down
And the streetcars that once rode there disappeared without a sound
But one bus stop still exists, it’s a night line no one takes
Through the districts now forgotten where no neon dares to flare

You can say it’s just a ruin but there’s people all around
And the children they once raised there lost the war in ’45
Now just one bus line remembers all the ups and downs of town
It’s a shame that no one rides it when the districts’ birthdays come

So the ghost bus it could take you where no human dares to walk
And the driver he could show you how the nighttime’s engine works
While the ghost town that you witness was once crowded with young life
Lovers ran through bright lit bridges now collapsed and lost in time

Now there’s only ugly buildings filled with echoes circling round
Now there’s only ugly buildings filled with echoes circling round

Ghost of Dawn in My Empty Arms

we picked cherries
drawn pigtailed faces
hid the marker eraser
bid tour nights to the farewell of mythology
birth of reality
sometime on a bench somewhere in a tight frame
she danced, the ghost of dawn in my empty arms
again, I shook off that feeling
and exited, shy, the scenery setting
let go
we picked pages randomly
puzzling flowers
from South African soil
made collages, lost documents, not
documented
forgotten to document the obvious
choose choice matter voice over matter
over choose you lose that fuse
we picked
from out of an anarchist's textbook
in Germany, a long time
ago
I still have notes on first discovery
of poetical vision
but she keeps them floating
as songs, freely
and I like it – structure
gongs of nurture and aprons of sky
that I mention now often
sky, it's three letters to god
from a tainted dog recapsulating
the dinner space chewed breakfast
at midnight.

Omniverse

Visiting unknown forgotten cities
meeting unknown forgotten people there
doing unknown forgotten things
I spend time there in dream zone
the omniverse, the blaze I
shooting clouds from watchtowers
fragmenting souls and bodies
drifting hearts and brains
the scientist of sound and word
what's left for me
when I return to you – eyes like
a cup of coffee
ritual music playing
I turn it off
and gaze at the thrilling sky
another dream to exit
another exit to dream about
I spend time there in your arms
the ominverse, the proud flesh
cooking souls in dessert mode
for the lords of stratosphere
now they are landing
can you hear the ships?
I swear I can
see the engines.

Only in Your Mind

Strange as it seems, I’m only what you think I am
Weird as it is, I’m standing where the sun god stands
And if I had his might there’d be no nights upon our heads
But bright immortal stars
Would fill the depths of Milky Way
Shade exists
Only in your mind
Light exists
Only in your mind
Death exists
Only in your mind
Life exists
Only in your mind

Before I was an Angel

I remember jungles in the morn mist
giant stars on exodus
angels, butterflies in armor
shooting red squares
of patience, wait…
beaten to death by police
somehow I passed through
saw black&white scenes
in the courtroom – judges yelling
this&that, policemen&doctors marching in line
bringing the zone to life
giving out straitjackets of fog
glasses of official vision
inhabitants seem happy, deafened w/ triangular
alien leeches in food & beverages,
consumed daily w/ pride, saluting
the homeland, pierced on spikes
of amusement, drowned in puke of entertainment
fooled by the steel-colored sky, who controls the
opiate controls the future
what was it anyway? birth on this planet
is punishment, man, such punishment is satori:
when you’ve seen the absolute reality
trivial monsters of power won’t rule you
they’re nothing, cowards of shade
toying the id their doctors prescribed me
images? I’ve got’em, lots enough to punish
the punishing cogs, small rat-faced
Goebbels-shaped pricks of inertia
late for the 3rd world war
plotting revolutions in introverted windowless
cabinets, crawling on
words? lots enough to disarm the police states
of the world, with one spit of poison
per 20 million dead pigs
drugs? I am the walking drug – causing death
in the 3rd world druglands
to see children reborn in civilized countries
I should’ve seen the masters, masters of
control, but all I’ve seen were madmen switching
roles with leaders, leaders chained to liberty’s
ankle, raising from the carpet some scumbag dirthole
shat on, happy in a locale
of absence – what was it anyway? do I wanna see this
world, after I was an angel? do I wanna see this, before
I was an angel? it’s a madhouse! deathcamp! funfair!
escape! escape! you will be angels too
but not if you won’t notice

"Brix, 25 & Sunshyne" - Complete poetry chapbook.

Astrea

she plucked midgalactic trucker
rose tucked it into her
hair & did nails in white
slide guitar

I told her it’s obvious: void people
hunt models
she laughed and said she liked to lay
hunters
in beds
& kill them
smiling

I said it’s a lovely
profession
I would like to sexecute
literary agents
too
but I prefer to use my brain
for sheet paper
she told me I should use
it in bed, & turn it off
any other time cause it only bothers
latino dipped Sundays tripped bikes
& sci-fi novels
I should be writing
on Mondays
& music’s all sex
& fashion
anyway

I said my calendar is astral
it has no parsec weekends
Poles call Russian years
and Russians
polar nights
& I won’t wait for friends
who lost me
in time

O, remember White Death
& retreat to alcove
spread love
above
she said, &

Yes, you can call me Astrea,
have you actually
read it?

Theremin Chime

Accompanied by sci-fi
B-movies, I boldly enter
stratos clouds, walking animalistic
among
tiny oceans of female
bubbles circling
grateful sky islands of core
masculine
whalers, hunting songs full blast
look through
a plane's wing, or stick magi –
dance on a fume, sex your perfume
then you'll know what
I mean by sound live
in space
trans balanced
sounds in pace – brave inbred
specimens colliding – high up like me,
jelly altitude bear
jumping in dreams
observing and learning
theremin chime
for later to jump lives from.

Esprit de Corps

I feel a strange sensation, running down my spine
it says “We need a new direction
in our old profession of crime.”
they say we're many and we stand as one
and our slaves know what to do
many voices speaking in the cool morning air
to you?
ain't that news?
the age of atom has begun
blank incrusted towers gleaming in the sun
with metal factory gates on top
blasts of sound are running out
radiation's messing up the crowds
coming out, who's coming out?
robot slave lords march as one
golden bridge hangs on the fun
we are one – nationwide automation
soul utilization
safe in your shelter protection
it’s getting worse?
esprit de corps

Alp Per

Through atlantic pan sonic scultpures
dawning of fiction, fantasy writers
of Avalon
singing old tales of riders and mares
putting plots on Mars
or other familiar planets
for working class kids'
amusement
on swings, on
ladders, in sand
boxes
preparing for king parts in the
choose your queen
process
hey professor, you missed the last child
dreaming!

Through somatic light years of Alptraum
dawning of science, road one
when was it? I feel
that yesterday's still
learning; troubling pens
on widow wings
capturing Kodak
lines from the future, to memorize
progress
and introduce men
to technology lost
who?
what was it? sore telepathic idiot
broadcasting

Yawn Mountain

Accidentally stuck
in endless corpse monk procession – to shroom
trade cheers boiling
market fish glitch
and descendents of murky
theaters, funky slices umbrella
sky logic:
oh tell me great writer, where is the skull
head of heaven, where are singing bowl
dust coin unrealistic spoiled brats
emerging from temples; no entrance to white
guys camera shooting loot cloud gold
manifesting, chick tourists
was it your mistake in maps
or perhaps I was sacrificed as planned, to yawn
mountain, men oil breathing.

Zen Pen

Weight of words? what's even that?
I shat upon the norms
before my form was born
weight of flesh – ash that clashes
fresh – what's even that? Rhyme
token song
so I repeat my questions
to pale faced nonlinear daybreak
shake the fake hand stake make spin
my hand on paper – automatic – trash
I rewrite every day
in anticipation
cutting the only office
wire
removing the last current
of fresh winter
air
clay work today spoon and fork
taken to work, my job is
boring – I mostly strike
keys on my machine
and sometimes make noise
chicks don't like it
friends are fewer
but at least I believe in my zen pen
should it write something wrong
I automatically correct it right
to pale faced nonlinear
twilight

Far Nepal

am I, in the glory of birth
or in the madness
of whiskey
mistaken, in white conclusions
drums that led me here
were shy
important
grisly

then I heard the flute –
golden fly
on the bedsit
angel
winks the wing
on sun

moon beyond the valley
sighs and leaves
the throne
troubled beauty
vasco
bitten

treads the junk of years
drinks the word
of war
rests on beds of death
fucks the mate
of god

dreams
of far Nepal – and now
I want to do nothing
but play the drum and sleep
when the rhythm states
my time

fragment 26

boy but you -need- shock talk
guitar jazz noise dollar facefunk
drought tightrope homebrewed
brilliantine slum casanova
-nova
nova- echo floating corridors
of where were you/she says – class preceding:
sun-over
cum over
sleepover-
you can!
we'll have tea 'til morning
discuss nothing
but will it turn you on?
...dark glass prog song/cut
-need- peach stuck yawn
blowjob nutjobs
in your market bed spat verse
at instant – reminded of the failure
last time
you wouldn't try again
but go
for the known
deal om-steady reading USB tags
on WWII bullet walls
singing grinding beatwork facefunk again
electro spectral macro fractals
called paintings in these here
districts – of sad leftover bum pawn
artjobs – sleeping pill
scattered bop hearts
on entertainment highway – god, I've read
that before
in a shitty poetry
book by someone
named
Linda or
Bob – & it's time -oh- to write that
-no- again

so here I shoot
caution-
calling no stations
United Sons of Bitches

fragment 7

oh! canni/ball
death dawn
cannon bull
trumpet – oh! elation
& sweets
of jazz that grow in night's
ovens
muzak-mistaken-for-muz-
-aku-
stick
on fracture/puncture sky
ur note or? the scene
sword on/beautiful legs/ugly
descriptions to
eloquent pearly jaws
blowing suburban
lowlifes
burning heavenly
jars
releasing birds at dusk
westward baby, there's it
circling thesis of resurrection
safe in borderline
have/frozen shower of mistakes – a
dro/nest fest of
love, that lips compose
for her;pit anonymous space gal
telepathically engaged
w/ the audience
what? music no music
just your negligee
& tables filled w/ scripts
his hand never finished

if there are solos left
if there are words
you missed/stories
you stuffed in the soul
box -why- for later...
then reach out for the dollars
& dance w/ other
boys' hats

cause, honey
I'm done here
sorry
if you thought
so

body destinations

already time has gone wild
& wild things gone tame
w/ time, & I have grown shy
of the godhead
so what's to lose, the chic face on the wall
from 10 years ago is now on display
at the cafe table
during sessions
in my bed
was that what I wanted – what was that I wanted
what want did I wased
and whatted lightbulb haven – the cinema upstairs
is now a supermarket
was it? Blank guitar sheet, sudden notes unsung
drop birds from the chimney
dead or living, no matter
the face now laughs
says „you're crazy”

love – in a word or song – & in flesh was something I've learned
not felt
& what I felt was nothing I could love
guess the first mistake was the best one
& so I turned back
& smiled back, laughed „OK, I am”
but so are we

through Paris and Berlin, cheap hotels & catwalks
notebooks, myths I've heard rang true
& maybe I became the ghost
I chased, if so, I sure didn't like it
so time, time warned me, put my old LPs
on, looped me back to 1998
books on nature
drawings
beauty
that I couldn't find in this face, even if killers did
& sold it
more than once, precisely

so now I'm stuck here listening to Iggy
drawn to that supermarket
forgetting the cinema, other places re/placed
scream scream through the sky, but I meditate
slowly, calm like Iza's hand
laughing she says, fool poet:

„Railroads, cemeteries, altars – that's body
destinations”

fragment 2

read too much! Dare
dare do too much! Right
it's fruit blow
up
downstroke G-minor
goddamnit again the lazy
finger

they'd call me brain hand
back in the 60s
 
chicks on postcards tinted icons fashion weepers
slow sadistic stockings
falling pin-up jewels failing triggering
practicing speeding down the silk smoke jinx &
hijack

smoke?
Got it
jazz phased tape phase loop Mittwoch
dance club
Berlin! - and the chorus says „not again” over funky
beats of jelly bears
trapped! - I'm in the loop duck swinging
like an idiot
pumping chicks steam hallway
mirror grocery station
passign the park parking the car in the black hole
that suddenly grows out of
cupcakes
she served hot as funk-work-out
gym bus dingo transpet

milady drops the coin
says two words „fashion” one time
& off I go singing like a fool, trampolining my way out of boredom
to the Strat armored warriors
of cosmos
shaving the stache
learning to fry
nicknames
glories
sex lines

enough!
Free chili
I'm
youthster oldtimer
goddamnit

That Poznan Guy

He used to love me (drink me)
now he likes me
takes me shopping for
books, records tells me about his streets – pies on giraffe block, one he
was scared of much
as child
he writes another poem
we bought a nice pop
couple

I think he just kept 3 notebooks
I think I’ve read them
all, & I think
I understand, but now he tells me about his gift – child dancer in a folk troupe, then
teen actor, then
well, lost in Kazimierz
madhouse,
which once was a funky
district

angels were drunk, he told me, & forgot
to spank the doctors
-insanity warden on french fries-

but this is Poznan, he tells me, this is
the richer Poland – I’m happy the books are so
cheap here, so we buy a heavy bag
& I still can afford
shoes
& a handbag
he carries it all
I smoke

everybody knows him
but he never says
hello – he’s just too
busy
he rarely writes about it all
town omits him in vision
& he omits everything
that wasn’t kind to him
I think that’s a lot of
faces

Yesterday he wrote:
“Uznajac Rynek i Cytadele
na reszte kladzie gruba bele.”
after reading some older friend of his
I think it means:
I only care for the Market and the Citadel
the rest I don’t give a flying fuck
about.

The Arena

This methuselahian prick circus has long since burned
& broke into flocks of riverside sparrows
ridiculous
when sails were set on
Rhine’s fires, on captainless ships, disheartened – Susanna-
now-trademark
to weary sailors, spread on the
cross of port’s realities, to
bridges disrupted, rebuild w/ dawn scintillations
she’ll finally give temple to templeless
priests – why? turn hearts to cracked outcasts, even if they fit
gray, in the torn coat
pockets – let them still beat, beat why?
calling them
to masses of promenade beggars, return
river to sweet soiled beds, allow to speak
those, us? We never had a voice, name
the
nameless heroes: their whispering
birch crosses w/ gold plates
replace, don't publish dumb
generation's poems – banish scoffers to night
give them derisive pedestals, crack absurd
tabernacles, bury dilemmas in mud, so still will
live the poets, unsatisfied
in sleepless invisible
partisan utopias
from island-sands & under-desert rivers
hiding
dreamy, w/ a birch
cross as the only monument
purposeless/accursed – nomads’ caravans
like thousands of light years before!

Titanic Ice-Cream (or the Curse of The Willow Owl, a Ballad)

There’s an old willow-tree
but I whisper; he screams
so he fucks; and I sleep
he gets tired; he’s weak
after that, it’s a draw
off to shopping we go
hunky dory the flow
like some ages ago
when he kisses the cake
laughter crumbles my stake
and they say I’m a witch
but I don’t know of which
so besides, and below
there’s a creek that does flow
when the make-up shakes him
I continue to sin
so titanic, who cares
give me ice-cream
or stare!

Goodnight, I said, trip safely

never marry a Catholic girl
was not the title
of this song, and I realize you love
their singer better, she said,
use only
IN CASE
of
Apocalypse, she said,
„Nobody respects the typist.
Awful people.”, she said
you've got
voice mail
the alcohol-mechanic replied:
„You have reached the end of this
conversation. Would you like to rewind to the beginning?”
No, she said, I would like to read
a book about
flowers.

Or watch a movie
about young
lovers.

Or violate international laws
with you
in a fountain.

Kinkier than Kinski.

OK, I said, but remember
Cinematography < Sex.
Heart emoticon.
Goodnight.
Songs that please the ear and leave the mind blown.

He wrote me a song
about
dinner
and
lipstick

My recipe?
„Primal thunder on German leather,
no cheap talk, just ice."
My secret?
„Curls on brocade.”

My man here,
proudly sponsored by
Italians, fueled by
Irish liquor, served on
Polish bread, trips the taxi
again
every time on the way to an airport he hears
„Zegarmistrz Swiatla” on the radio and goes
crazy – talking
about
that nuclear war
and Sun Ra

I am also tidying up his discography
today. To do this, you have to be a
pervert. And very pedantic.

„You let him go to
Nepal???”
"I always promise we play
RPG -
precisely
Naughty
Librarian & the Quest of R'lyeh
when he's
back. He always returns.”
/interrupted call

trick TV ad
between
Mexican
soap operas
"Only in chosen supermarkets! The Che
Guevara cheddar - tastes like Revolution!"
the heroine is in jail again, but she
will return
in another movie
when Albino
scores the monk

"Z Ciebie to jest niezla modelka"
said my mother to her mother
which pissed off our
grandfathers
and they don't like interruptions
when watching
big football games

And if you ask her
How to survive today's madness?
She'll tell you to
Get bored quickly. Repeat until you're
bored with boredom.
Voila, the rest is in my purse!

The Consequence of Fury, or How I Stopped Worrying, and Married a Model

Europeans
do it
better

"Niezly Meksyk!" means "What a Mexico!" in Polish, and is a
sweet
local
description of total
disorder.
My first words in the morning.

Polish word of the day:
makabra
rhymes
with
cadabra

Girl advice:
Be immediate, intuitive, totally pointless. Make beautiful noise when you're not busy breathing. Ignore your dead heroes, even those who think they're still alive. Don't listen to predictable music. Scream, whisper, chant like a madman. Make love 3 times a day. Outrun your thoughts and ego. Be yourself to the point where you're the only one who tries to understand you. Not even I have to do that.

Don't call yourself an underground artist, unless you actually live in your wife's basement, because your music supposedly disturbs her cats.
German word of the day:
Donerwetter
like Kebab
only
better

„What now?!”
„Making noise again. To the f*cking basement.”
„With a lovely accent on f*cking.”

3:59 A.M.
wheelchairing a yorkshire
terrier in Brixton singing „god
save the queen / she ain't
no human being.” Yes, mother was right.
Poet.
Magician.
Likes Zevon.
Calls dad
when in
trouble.

Bingo.

Sonary Sonary

Sonary sonary
słoneczne flary
sumeryjskie filary
głębiny
dna
zbierają się tam
koszmary koszmary
wczorajszego
dnia
wibracje atrakcje
i snu lewitacje
konfuzje inkluzje
decyzje dufuzje
rekiny cekiny pingwiny
sonary słoneczne flary

Płynny

Kiedyś byłeś węglem
Niewinna ręka pisała po ścianie
Potem byłeś pyłem
Kiedyś byłeś kamieniem
I głos mordercy powtarzał jak mantrę
Teraz jestem płynny

Spadam deszczem w dół
Cyrkuluję kanałami
Krążę z oceanem
I rzekami
Spadam deszczem w dół
I choć nie wiem jak śmiesznie
Może to zabrzmieć
Rozmawiam z delfinami

Kiedyś byłeś nitką
Niewinne ręce szyły ubrania
Potem byłeś suknią
Kiedyś byłeś betonem
Dezerter mieszkał na najwyższym piętrze
Teraz jesteś lutnią

Niech zaśpiewa wiatr
Niech zaśpiewa wiatr
Niech zaśpiewa wiatr
Niech zaśpiewa wiatr

Bo my, artyści, mamy kicia wyjebane

***
Ktoś powiedział mi parę żyć temu
„twoje wiersze są o niczym”
a o czym miałyby być?
co tak szczególnego się dzieje?
kto tak szczególny się rodzi?
jaki temat nie schodzi
z bladego ekranu gazet i TV?
jeżeli dla kogoś „o niczym”
oznacza już „puls istnienia”, to dziękuję za komplement.

***
Z drugiej strony, pozdrawiają serdecznie
ocalone dłonie koneserów
rzucone wcześniej w bop
i czarno-białe filmy, teraz zapuszczają brody
i święcą się na proroków
beatu
świętych kanonicznych
aptek
tak, to modne w tym sezonie – polecają się
żurnale i ulotki zostawiane
pod drzwiami, wsuwane pod próg religijne uniesienia, dostarczane cyfrowo flesze
z drugiej strony, tak, z drugiej strony, pozdrawiają serdecznie odmłodzone monstra, przyklejone do warg gąbczaste kreatury, apostołowie bezrobotnych
pokoleń
kto zje z nami?
przepraszamy,
to nie nasza stylizacja
a, i Jezus opuścił budynek.

***
Z Krakowian czyta tylko
Sztaudyngera?
Trafiło ci się, kicia,
na frajera!

***
Izolować
Inwigilować
Wprowadzać
Wyprowadzać
Z biegiem lat nauczycie się tego i paru innych, najpotrzebniejszych rzeczy.
Siedząca praca to straszna męczarnia w upalne dni.
Figura wojskowa podtrzymuje niebiosa.
Ekspert stwierdza – dobry rocznik, zaprawdę smakowite.
Musisz go poznać, by nie zginąć w tej branży.
Biurokracja obrzezania.
Kandytat na snajpera otwiera okno z hukiem – oj,źle – niedobrze, niedobrze…
Ludzie są wyznacznikiem regionu, pamiętaj:
Inwigilować.
Myśl jest jak mleko dolane do kawy. A ty jesteś kawą.
Nie poznasz się na ulicy, łuczniku.
Brukowce nic ci nie powiedzą:
„obywatel K. został zamordowany wczoraj wieczorem w wyjątkowo brutalny sposób. Otóż sprawcy…”
„pani E. urodziła szóste dziecko i ma się dobrze…”
Spaliłeś zdjęcia?
Daj mi popioły, natychmiast – białą kliszę i coś do popicia.
Spóźniłem się na tramwaj.

***
Jest druga
wypaliłem już wszystkie skręty
ślad nie został po koktajlowym zespole
w głośnikach wciąż pada deszcz
i kojot drży na wietrze
zupełnie jak w japońskiej
powieści
jemy winogrona, tańczymy w piasku
piszemy papierowe listy
i nic nie jest japońskie
winyl trzeszczy, to prawie jak
kominek
i wino się nigdy nie kończy
zaśpiewamy jeszcze kilka niemieckich piosenek
zadzwonię do wydawcy
zerżnę cię dwa razy
zapalę papierosa
a potem pójdziemy na tacos

*** (Peace go with you, Gil Scott-Heron)
Spóźniłem się na pociąg – towarowy odjeżdżał o drugiej – zabrał mnie na peryferie stert gołębi – zimnych, stalowych, spadały z nieba – obce gramatyki wlewały się uchem ścian i kaloryferów – nasłuchując oznak życia wśród resztek kłamstw i rezolucji, oddechu getta wśród klinicznie mankamentnych obietnic
białasa na księżycu, pluskiew w Białym Domu, tajemnych języków arabskiej muzyki
z pokoju obok.
Nowy biały poeta, poprawił płaszcz, przeszedł się nową czarną ulicą, i buty stały się białe, wódka czerstwa, chleb jutrzejszy – szron etykiety i kleru.
W twarzy zobaczył zero, a w lustrze swoje marne kochanki, których nawet wspomnienie sprowadza Deszcz.
Postawił kropkę znów nietamgdzietrzeba, odwodnił wątrobę i przespał się z popielniczką na łóżku wodnym Diany.
Nowy Czarny Poeta milczał dość długo.
Mam nadzieję, że mi uda się pomilczeć
nieco dłużej.
Z góry dziękuję,
Adam Jan Kaufmann

...and the town awakes without me

clipped wing moon/bass baboon/slug harpoon/vodka broom/u-bahn spoon/petrol boom/garlic croon/sonic spoon/dukes of doom
and the town awakes without me

plastic lawn/pickel cone/reefer prone/high rise dawn/mercy sown/big guy won/who's the prawn/romp the drone/rip the morn
and the town awakes without me

Summer by the Landwehrkanal

Sailing on a crimson ship
Watching high galactic whips
Easy comers hit or miss
Pepsi Earth and fast food kiss

Death consumers changing seats
Life forms changing into meat
Lay with me and watch the seams
By the shores of freedom stream

Very soon you’ll realize
I’ve been only kept alive
To consume the product tree
Stand on top of ladder sea

Winter by the Landwehrkanal

Winter slowly ages fast
Winter slowly ages fast
Winter slowly ages fast
Winter slowly ages fast

Crowds of puppets walking past
Crowds of puppets walking past

Eastern armies marching west
Eastern armies marching west

Screaming in a wonderland
Screaming in a wonderland

In all the scenes your mind can’t hold
And all the words that can’t be told

Baby Dares

sonar sonar
Turkish coffee
lice aroma
sofa Mozart
solar flares
blaze gouts & spouts
trouts kick out
& gather
where
ex-mare nights of
tooth decay
flesh the pawn
on con tight spawn
fools away
enbrave his
yawn

net vibrations
flick attractions
basic fractions
levitation
or confusion
brain inclusions sex diffusions
bead illusions
thrift decisions skirt precision
liaison roller
cross transfusions
sequins beading
frequent sequence
reaching
ribbons
drifting
secrets

sky of thighs &
solar flares
singing sonar
polar
bears
paintings printings
season greetings
winking shrinking
her man stares
jangling with the puppet play
concentrate on snare beat spare
dinner’s ready
baby dares

MMM: Electronic Music Guidelines

great gray tunnel boring
machine spooning the gorge deer
with a human face mechanized
beach hole in the ground
filled with water we are in
it difficult to identify
feeding underground technique
which nobody
knows factory hall hover
in the air broken
windows artificial smiling slut
for chips high
bunker melting machine
recyclable people urns
for people great, greedy, metal dick
coring living room with good
lighting full of
corpses mental photosynthesis tunnel
cross our brain electric stream
of information barred
price second (road) superstructure anti-
divine comparing humans
& animals three tubes conglomerate
oceanic occupation quote: „you want to talk about words? it’s pay
$50 you want to be able? – be rich” valued the
land of income monocultural uni
fication
mechanical guide under the pier
keeps building
higher, profounder power of
mind & prohibition of creative
activity unification of mass
es plasma
skin unexplored regions of earth
there waiting for
destruction metal statues
performing work dynamic
prophets of fear we
are different other means
worse zero
values times of original beauty
in mass eternal
old age
life so long it bores you to
vomit billions of times
one well-paid activity
death amplifiers thoughts
MMM

Hymn to Her

the reality!
vegan bar, 2 teas
endive salad
meditation of her January morning
better than millions of unnecessary lines
this particular mix of minimalist
melodies & sex that can only exist here
& now, in incarnation of time
in milliseconds given to her
by all the bodhisattvas, somewhere
between one bounce of her skirt & cold steamcloud of her mouth
toying the pastel purple
of moonrise
she, the night current
go(i)ng

oh, ring finger of night
left handed green openwork
Katherine
open the door!, sprinkled with rust
& loneliness – so, boldly, as befits a lady,
shaking her hips, she enters the „Little Zoo”,
passing through vintage shops, hash ‚Dam cafés,
Seventh-day Adventist church,
leather tiled drugstores, torn ragged warehouses,
cut canvas ateliers,
vegetarian restaurants, dig katzenjammer patios
paving slabs in billions, snobs & drunks
& pigeons & rats
meaningless storm cats
busking/screwing on the piss-covered stairs
cut back to the first scene
was midnight

she only tastes a tease
of a fourth element, now pushing bravely up
already close to absolute
over which she can only
elevate
to void bliss
or a universe, or saint madgirl
feasting on
toxic districts, petrifying herself
to toothpicks
it is no longer, however, relevant
neither this nor that road
because here, in „Little Zoo”, in a silly silver cage,
a wintry sedated, tufted
cockatoo, cries
out a Coleman
solo
& Katherine laughs sweetly, un
certain

„oh, nirvana!” – a billion pa
wing slabs cry,
cry back softly at her
&
she remembers the past life:
7 years of love, free, but never in
Nepal, or sweet, though
loved
as only a wise man can love,
the loves that he loved
& thing – the things he called things
& now
at the end of my flesh line
I give up to
nonsense
where everything belongs:
her hand
& parks of childhood
enlightened by laughter
of cruel reviewary
ships – passing us slowly,
carelessly
anonymously

nakedly emerging
in full bloom gaze
behind the dawn clouds, wild crescent
burst into loud, cheap winechicken laughter, „Bridges!
Show me some!”
there are no, Buddha babies,
„forms finite”, „ideas”, or „make senses”
& „bridges”?
you scream „Show me!”
I jokingly record
a song:
best of all – there is no Buddha, no lotus
flowers, which sprang from under his
proverbial feet
so Buddha babies, what have you pursued?

ain’t the trick
to wake up,
buy a cockatoo,
eat your salad & pay the right price?
perhaps there’s more, as in sea
or space songs… but one satori’s enough
so sell it back
to your hunter
he paid the twice price
already

we cut now back to the scene
years later

yes, all love creatures seemed to say „hello”
to her hungry spirit vagabonding
the lightless
hour
only I said „goodbye”, &, easy to tell, it worked out
in the end
that’s only now, I’m guessing, beginning