"Nonsense" (New Poem, Polish/English, 29.01.2025).

Bezsenne dni w Kottbusser Tor, ociężałe spektakle światła
dwa razy cisza powtarza skutecznie mantrę pierwszego działa

Czy jest już za wcześnie na sen, może wcale nie kamień
podrygi punkowego bohatera

Kamień toczy ropę z ucha, ucho nastawia się na odbiór radia
w małym poddachowym pokoiku

Kotti śpi, albo udaje czuwanie, jak pilot od TV tamtego ranka
kiedy ktoś przełączył wiadomości na kolor jej ust

I ona stała się ciszą, snem, na który za późno, przechadzałem się z Porterem
po najpodlejszych ulicach, cud, że nikt nie zadźgał mnie
nożem

Trafiłem na koncert The Boots, żony muzyków były zaskoczone
że młody Polak kojarzy coś więcej, niż Lecha Wałęsę

Mam jednak wąsy, choć wtedy ledwo miałem włosy, zgalając wstyd
porannych butów, detoks malinowego księcia

Pisałem "King of Kreuzberg" na jednej serwetce, w kawiarni na szczycie świata
hej, to wygląda jak Sputnik, krzyknęła
rozkładając skrzydła krwi nad chodnikiem

Spadła prosto w czerwoną gwiazdę Alexanderplatz, próbując
pociągnąć mnie za sobą, byłem jednak za ciężki, opity piwem
obżarty pizzą z jalapeno

Teraz wspominam złote dni, które były brunatnym gównem
kolejnego upośledzonego strażnika

Po tej stronie świata zawsze pada deszcz
i Faraon bredzi o życiu

***

Sleepless days in Kottbusser Tor, heavy spectacles of light
the silence effectively repeats the mantra of the first cannon twice

Is it too early to sleep, maybe not a stone at all
the twitches of a punk hero

A stone drains pus from the ear, the ear tunes itself to the radio
in a small attic room

Kotti sleeps, or pretends to be awake, like the TV remote control that morning
when someone switched the news to the color of her lips

And she became silence, a dream that was too late, I walked with Porter
through the meanest streets, it's a miracle that no one stabbed me
with a knife

I came across a concert by The Boots, the musicians' wives were surprised
that a young Pole knows something more than Lech Wałęsa

I do have a moustache, although I barely had hair then, shaving off the shame
of my morning shoes, detox of the raspberry prince

I wrote "King of Kreuzberg" on one napkin, in a cafe on top of the world
hey, that looks like Sputnik, she shouted
spreading wings of blood over the pavement

She fell straight into the red star of Alexanderplatz, trying
to pull me with her, but I was too heavy, drunk on beer
gluttonous on jalapeno pizza

Now I remember the golden days that were the brown shit
of another retarded guard

It always rains on this side of the world
and Pharaoh talks nonsense about life

"Płonie" | Nowy wiersz, 13.01.2025.

Ilekroć wzdychasz do muzy, muza
podnosi odkurzacz - śmieje się z wczorajszego
robotnika, dziś pochłoniętego manią motyli

co zbierasz, podróżniku, nic z tych łódek
nie przepłynie na drugą stronę Nilu
nic z tych piramid pod lodem
nie strawi ognia rozkoszy

może warto odegnać fałsz, wczorajszy postument
artystów, szalonych naukowców
w cyfrowych laboratoriach

wiem, jestem jednym z nich, odkąd gitara akustyczna
wisi na ścianie, nie sięgam po uczciwe nuty
tłumaczę śpiew ptaków na pianino, którego partie odtwarza
mechaniczny śpiewak Dron

błędem jest nadawanie imion ptakom
możesz ukraść ich pieśni, ale nigdy nie polecisz
wyżej niż tanie linie lotnicze do celu

nie ma co płakać, nie ma potrzeby krakać - nic nie dzieje się
wcale, przyczynoskutek obumiera jako nieużywany
element
improwizacje niosą ferwor zachęty, może warto zagrać jeszcze
kilka koncertów

poczekać do wielkiej czterdziestki, wyprowadzić psa
i sprawdzić, czy coś nie
płonie.

***

Whenever you sigh to the muse, the muse
lifts the vacuum cleaner - laughs at yesterday's
worker, today absorbed in the mania of butterflies

what do you collect, traveler, nothing from these boats
will sail to the other side of the Nile
nothing from these pyramids under the ice
will consume the fire of delight

maybe it's worth driving away the falsehood, yesterday's pedestal
of artists, mad scientists
in digital laboratories

I know, I'm one of them, since the acoustic guitar
hangs on the wall, I don't reach for honest notes
I translate bird songs onto a piano, whose parts are played
by the mechanical singer Drone

it's a mistake to give names to birds
you can steal their songs, but you'll never fly
higher than a budget airline to its destination

there's no point in crying, there's no need to croak - nothing happens
at all, the cause-effect dies as an unused
element
improvisations carry the fervor of encouragement, maybe it's worth playing
a few more concerts

waiting until the big forty, taking the dog out
and checking if something's not
burning.

"Reżim / Regime" New Poem, 21.06.2024.

Gorąca pogoda delikatna
burza gwiazdowa z falą upałów
scenariusz marzeń o dronie
zerwany w starożytnym Rzymie

spacerujemy małymi uliczkami
słuchając Mozarta na naszych walkmanach
nie ma nic dziwnego
w tonącym człowieku ze stali

przychodzi do nas w każdy piątek
mówić o czystej prawdzie i religii
raczej krótko obciętej prawdzie
lub czymś bliższemu reżimowi

reżim wolnych dusz - najbardziej przerażający reżim
o którym można pomyśleć
rdzewieje jego stal nierdzewną
czyniąc go czerwonym człowiekiem lat 60-tych

kiedy paranoja zimnej wojny
rozciągnęła cienie grzybów na dzieci-kwiaty
zmuszając niektóre z nich do śmierci w wieku 27 lat
pozwalając innym dożyć dojrzałego wieku 80 lat
być świadkiem kłamliwej
Mercedesowej
utopii

***

Hot weather delicate
heatwave star storm
drone dream scenario
plucked in ancient Rome

we walk tiny streets
listening to Mozart on our walkmans
there is nothing strange about
the drowning man of steel

he comes to visit every Friday
talking clean truth and religion
clean cut truth rather
or something closer to regime

regime of free souls - the most terryfying regime
he can think of
rusts his stainless steel
makes him a red man of the 60s

when cold war paranoia
stretched mushroom shadows over flower children
forcing some of them to die at 27
letting others live past the ripe age of 80
to witness false
Mercedes
utopia

"Kawa Szatan / Satan Coffee" (New Poem, 17.06.2024).

Kawa Szatan o zmierzchu sprawiła, że nie mogłem zasnąć
ale nie tylko ta kawa
także ptaki, nietoperze, i liście
spisane tuszem po japońsku
językiem, który rozumiał tylko Pan Wrochem
jakimś cudem znów trafiłem do Berlina, choć przekreśliłem to miasto
jak tylko zamknięto Tacheles
mówię sam do siebie, jesteś weteranem
może powinieneś zacząć zarabiać na wykładach
ale kto chciałby ich słuchać
niemożliwe
ciche
spienione niebo
może jeszcze czerwone światło dla hipsterskich turystów
może też moja koleżanka, która 20 lat temu zdefiniowała sztukę
"sztuka jest ładna"
tak, kochanie, bardzo ładna
szczególnie kiedy trzeba zapłacić rachunki
niebo przecieka
i skończył się gaz

***

Satan Coffee at dusk kept me awake
but not only this coffee
also birds, bats, and leaves
written in ink in Japanese
a language that only Mr. Wrochem understood
somehow I ended up in Berlin again, even though I had crossed this city out
as soon as Tacheles closed
I say to myself, you are a veteran
maybe you should start making money from lecturing
but who would want to listen to you?
impossible
quiet
foamy sky
maybe another red light for hipster tourists
maybe also my friend who defined art 20 years ago
"art is nice"
yes, honey, very nice
especially when there are bills to pay
the sky is leaking
and the gas ran out

"People and Constellations" (New poem, 28.05.2024).

Inside the peace in the raspberry room
I collect teeth and strings
favorite mug
forgotten portrait
old record about Polish bells

Polish trees are growing
their branches dig into the marble
quiet places of the crazy
a landscape once young, forever remembered
lost on cassette

Don't cry over the fate of the grass
she only collects dew
subterranean laws of the empty Earth
someone will definitely learn something new today
about people and constellations

***

Wewnątrz spokoju w malinowym pokoju
zbieram zęby i struny
ulubiony kubek
portret zapomniany
stara płyta o polskich dzwonach

Polskie drzewa rosną
ich konary wpijają się w marmur
ciche miejsca szalonych
pejzaż raz młodych, na zawsze zapamiętanych
przegranych na kasetę

Nie płacz nad losem trawy
ona tylko zbiera rosę
podziemnych praw pustej Ziemi
ktoś na pewno nauczy się dzisiaj czegoś nowego
o ludziach i konstelacjach

"Monkeys" / "Małpy" (New Poem, 21.05.2024).

The shark eats ice cream on the lawn

Conrad laughs from across the ocean of sound

He hasn't been here for a long time

But I still remember the feeling

Expression of the day

Dry crop meeting

Marijuana in the bath

I once read about a monkey

But the monkey grew up and found a job

And he's probably looking for a woman

But he knows he won't find her

In the land of smartphone Tarzans

Where everyone puts shitty stickers on

A discounted Ferrari

The monkey will probably burp
Buy another beer

And play another riff on the bass
He used to have friends, but some of them are already visiting the Necropolis

And others have wives who have rendered them speechless

Other monkeys remember bad things

So they don't want a bad monkey

Beyond the ego is the land of ice

Where Princess Pepsi sings

And she doesn't care about the collapse of the planet

***

Rekin je lody na trawniku

Conrad śmieje się zza oceanu dźwięku

Dawno już go tu nie było
Ale wciąż pamiętam wrażenie
Wyrażenie dnia
Spotkanie suchych plonów
Marihuana w kąpieli

Czytałem kiedyś o małpie
Ale małpa dorosła, znalazła pracę
I prawdopodobnie szuka kobiety
Wie jednak, że jej nie znajdzie
W krainie smartphonowych Tarzanów
Gdzie każdy przykleja gówniane naklejki
Na Ferrari z przeceny

Małpa pewnie beknie
Kupi kolejne piwo
I zagra kolejny riff na basie
Miała kiedyś przyjaciół, ale niektórzy już zwiedzają Nekropolis
A inni mają żony, które odebrały im mowę

Inne małpy pamiętają co złe

Więc nie chcą złej małpy

Poza ego jest kraina lodu

Gdzie śpiewa księżniczka Pepsi

I za nic ma upadek planety

"Cloaks for a Raven" | New Poem, 26.04.2024.

a raven eats a dead skull
fragrant wings
they break light with light

there are no reliable principles
where the head of the sky breaks the landscape

I ask: who is in charge here?
who is the ruler of my blood pressure
atmospheres of darkness strike the gong

no one will wake up one by one
when I count out the people of oppression
a quiet hope of love

let's praise the veterans
their faded, wrinkled souls
like cloaks for a raven

***

kruk je martwą czaszkę
skrzydła wonne
łamią światło światłem

nie ma spolegliwych zasad
gdzie szef nieba łamie pejzaż

pytam: kto tu rządzi?
kto jest władcą mojego ciśnienia
atmosfery mroku uderzają gong

nikt się kolejno nie dobudzi
kiedy odliczę ludzi pognębienia
cichą nadzieją miłości

wychwalajmy weteranów
ich wypłowiałe, pomarszczone dusze
jak płaszcze dla kruka

"Ineffable" (New Poem, Polish/English 19.04.2024).

Wybierz, co powiesisz na ścianie

zdefiniuj sekrety boga

obejrzyj porno z aniołami

Zweryfikuj wczorajszą butelkę
odłóż traf na później
bądź szczęśliwym idiotą

Wsiądź do tramwaju
pojedź do pracy
zrealizuj sny wczorajszego ojca

Zatańcz z długonogą tancerką
w kabaretkach, przemów do dnia
odejścia perspektywy

Kiedy wstaniesz, zapomnisz o dzisiaj
lecz dziś będzie konceptem
prostym acz niewysławianym
człowiekiem.

***

Choose what to hang on the wall

define god's secrets

watch porn with angels

Verify yesterday's bottle

postpone your luck until later

be a happy idiot

Take the tram

go to work

make the dreams of yesterday's father come true

Dance with the long-legged dancer

in fishnet stockings, speak to the day

perspective departures

When you get up, you will forget about today

but today it will be a concept

simple yet ineffable

human.

"Sea Air" - New Poem (Polish/English, 19.04.2024).

Morskie powietrze
głaszcze podniebienie włosów
nieboskłon Kali
tańczymy z głowami demonów

Morskie powietrze
uderza nozdrza nutką statków

wonnych Indii
podróżujemy bluesową karawaną

Morskie powietrze
jest jak cios zen między oczy
jod wpływa na dyskomfort duszy
gdy jest za głośno

Morskie powietrze
jest zapisem nutowym poranka
mistycznego rytmu
i tysiąca innych pulsów

Morskie powietrze
to mój dom.

***

Sea air

strokes the roof of the hair

the sky of Kali

we dance with the heads of demons

Sea air

hits the nostrils with the note of ships

fragrant India

we travel in a blues caravan

Sea air

it's like a zen punch between the eyes

iodine affects the soul's discomfort

when it's too loud

Sea air

is the sheet music of the morning

mystical rhythm

and a thousand other pulses

Sea air

it is my house.

From "Use Your Brain" - new poem series 2024 (English / Polish) 2

Into the firewater pit, secluded

tired of visions, high on music

still catching up with the hummingbird

there are voices on the highway

drifting with the rising spirit of error

excluded, tortured by the free morning dawn

out of the firewater pit

and into the scarab pan

Egypt must have been a hit

drawn

higher

the pyramid lord, the eye of Ra

such sculptures could not exist in your brain

dancing on LSD cubes, torrent, near the vibration

of pre-eternal sand

there are voices in the chamber

echo one, echo two

we press the record button

and try not to mess up

everything, us, the planet again

we are naked

stirred at dawn of excitement

***

Do studni z wodą ogniową, w odosobnieniu

zmęczony wizjami, naćpany muzyką

wciąż gonię kolibra

na autostradzie słychać głosy

dryfujące wraz z rosnącym duchem błędu

wykluczeni, torturowani wolnym porannym świtem

ze zbiornika wody ogniowej

i na patelnię ze skarabeuszem

Egipt musiał być hitem

pociągnięty

wyższy

władca piramidy, oko Ra

takie rzeźby nie mogłyby istnieć w twoim mózgu

taniec na kostkach LSD, torrent, blisko wibracji

z przedwiecznego piasku

w izbie słychać głosy

powtórz raz, powtórz dwa

wciskamy przycisk nagrywania

i staramy się nie zepsuć

wszystkiego, nas, planety ponownie

jesteśmy nadzy

poruszeni o świcie podniecenia

From "Use Your Brain" - new poem series 2024 (English / Polish)

Arrows of sun pinpoint the car

it drives on thru the desert

in the desert there are cacti

I will feed on them in the morning

sweetness of my favorite nectar

dense like meat

spoon head

military kiddo

Arrows of his gun pinpoint the wanderer
he is now shadows

the arrow, nuclear in essence, leaves

a mess of broken suburbs

behind

dense like meat

knife girl

dancing in the shallows of my brain.

***

Strzały słońca wskazują samochód

jedzie dalej przez pustynię

na pustyni są kaktusy

pożywię się nimi rano

słodycz mojego ulubionego nektaru

gęstego jak mięso

główka łyżki

wojskowy dzieciak

Strzały z jego pistoletu wskazują wędrowca

jest teraz cieniem

strzała, w istocie nuklearna, opuszcza

bałagan zrujnowanych przedmieść

gęsta jak mięso

dziewczyna z nożem

tańczy w płytkich obszarach mojego mózgu.

2 new poems (2023/10/01). English / Polish

"Zeit"

Listening to the beginning of the world
Shaky rhythms, simple words
Shots of light from a dying bird
There is calmness and peace inside
There is a current
There are active brains in the desert
I draw a circle in the sand
And wake up
Solid mixture of flesh and passion
Fresh on the wings of time

"I Forgot"

All the men look like the prime minister
All women like his wife
This is danger zone
Police helicopters circling in
Vultures of the waste
Harbingers of horrid
Clarinets of death
This is bad country
The young are wastedly locked
In old uncertain future
Dealing with brain crime
Silent guns the triumphant
Where is love in this locale
Where? - I forgot.

***

„Zeit”

Słuchanie początku świata
Drżące rytmy, proste słowa
Ujęcia światła umierającego ptaka
Wewnątrz panuje spokój i cisza
Jest prąd
Na pustyni są aktywne mózgi
Rysuję okrąg na piasku
I budzę się
Solidna mieszanka mięsa i pasji
Świeża na skrzydłach czasu

"Zapomniałem"

Wszyscy mężczyźni wyglądają jak premier
Wszystkie kobiety lubią jego żonę
To jest strefa niebezpieczna
Policyjne helikoptery krążą
Sępy odpadów
Zwiastuny okropności
Klarnety śmierci
To jest zły kraj
Młode są marnotrawione w zamknięciu
W starej niepewnej przyszłości
Radzenie sobie z przestępczością mózgową
Ciche działa triumfują
Gdzie jest miłość w tym miejscu
Gdzie? - Zapomniałem.

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”.

4 poems (February 2022).

Ja i Yuri Morozov - Me and Yuri Morozov

Zima była twarda
ktoś przyświecał księżycem w bagna dźwięku
ktoś inny dłubał przy magnetofonie szpulowym
ktoś jeszcze inny uważał, że produkuje nasze sesje

wtedy spotkałem Yurija
wplecionego w śnieg kablem mikrofonowym
śpiewał piosenki Beatlesów
i za nic miał twardość poranka

siedział jak jogin tęczy i blasku, otaczał mnie aurą pokoju
złudne wrażenia obecności
dźwięk jak ulotne fatum
krążył ponad naszymi głowami

był to dzień, czy noc, nieważne
księżyc i słońce w tańcu sprawczym
dwie godziny snu w masce durowych tonacji
musimy skończyć z tymi Beatlesami, powiedział
i odnaleźć własny, słowiański pop art

Yuri był wielkim artystą
ja tylko przewijam jego taśmy
i gdzieś tam widzę fragmenty
słyszę inne czcionki
wiem, że unikatem jego istnienia był dźwięk

dźwięk w najczystszej postaci

***

The winter was tough
someone was shining the moon in the swamp of sound
someone else was tinkering with a reel-to-reel tape recorder
someone else thought he was producing our sessions

then I met Yuri
woven into the snow with a microphone cable
he sang Beatles songs
and the hardness of the morning was for nothing

he sat like a yogi of rainbow and light, he surrounded me with an aura of peace
illusory impressions of presence
sound like a fleeting doom
circled over our heads

it was day or night, whatever
the moon and the sun in a motion dance
two hours of sleep in a major key mask
we have to finish these Beatles, he said
and find our own Slavic pop art

Yuri was a great artist
I'm just rewinding his tapes
and I see fragments out there somewhere
I can hear other fonts
I know that sound was unique in its existence

sound in its purest form

Sponad Atlantydy - Over Atlantis

Odkleiłem się tak bardzo
w fotografiach modowych z lat 60-tych
kwaśnej gitarze Hendrixa
i wołaniu miłości przez wieczną pustynię ludzkości

że zapomniałem, skąd jestem
i wiatr zawył ostatni raz, a jego ruch zabrał mnie powyżej
hałas istnienia zgasł
jak papieros bogów

było już późno, ostatnie światła gasły w ostatnich knajpach
ostatni pijacy czcili gołębi świt
w kałuży odbijał się Budda
on, albo mój brzuch

i sponad Atlantydy
wystartowały ostatnie bombowce
ostatni piloci przesłaniali oczy ze zdumienia
rosą lotosu

nikt nie chciał wojny, ale zawsze jakaś się toczyła
dopóki boginie oceanu nie zawołały "dość" ponad pustynią
i to "dość" znaczyło naprawdę koniec

ile jeszcze razy obudzę się w koszmarze
zanim wyzwolą mnie motyle?

***

I got so detached so much
in fashion photos from the 60's
Hendrix's acid guitar
and the cry of love through the eternal desert of mankind

that I forgot where I am from
and the wind howled one last time and its movement took me above
the noise of existence went out
like the cigarette of the gods

it was already late, the last lights were going out in the last bars
the last drunkards worshiped the dawn pigeons
the Buddha reflected in the puddle
him or my belly

and over Atlantis
the last bombers took off
the last pilots shaded their eyes in amazement
the dew of the lotus

no one wanted a war, but there was always one
until the goddesses of the ocean cried "enough" over the desert
and that "enough" really meant the end

how many more times will I wake up in a nightmare
before the butterflies set me free?

Zielona Fala - Green Wave

zielona fala
ciche płomienie Gandzi
stare promienie trzeciego oka
odejście w manewry snu
bezdenne meduzy na plaży
patrzą w cichego człowieka
zagubionego w tłumaczeniach wakacji
spod parasola spadochron
cennego rękodzieła
gubi się pod zeppelinowym niebem Berlina
ale ono zewsząd odbija morze
jak fluxus kieruje go w dom
ślimacze wędrówki fali
między piwem a skrętem
święta piczka Gandzi
zakręca poza miasto
ucieczka z granic ludzkości
spadochroniarka jestestwa
zgrabnie przeżuwa id
aż ani jedno słowo nie zakłóca
czerwcowych obligacji
światłocień Grety Garbo
w jej trzecim oku
kieruje nas w prastary Tybet
mistyczne słowa-klucze
rybie fontanny zbawienia
skapujące pomału z nieba
rysują niepewną dłonią
zieloną falę, o której było na początku
i będzie też na końcu
gdy każdy poważny wiersz
wstydzi się być mną
gdy zasypia

***

green wave
the silent flames of Ganja
the old rays of the third eye
departure into sleep maneuvers
bottomless jellyfish on the beach
they look at the silent man
lost in holiday translations
a parachute from under an umbrella
precious handicrafts
gets lost under the zeppelin skies of Berlin
but it reflects the sea everywhere
how fluxus drives him home
the snails wandering the wave
between the beer and the twist
Ganja's holy muff
turns out of town
escape from the frontiers of humanity
self paratrooper
neatly chews id
until not a single word disturbs
June bonds
Chiaroscuro by Greta Garbo
in her third eye
leads us to ancient Tibet
mystical keywords
fish fountains of salvation
dripping slowly from the sky
they draw with an uncertain hand
the green wave it was about at the beginning
and it will also be at the end
when any serious poem
ashamed to be me
when he falls asleep

UFO

aneks złotoustej purpury
ktoś gra prosty punkowy riff
moja babcia przyrządza kotlety
każdy gówniarz z osiedla je uwielbia
niektórzy nie mają już babć
są więc zarozumiale zazdrośni
ale w ciszy piją kompot
wyobrażając sobie, że podszyto go LSD
ja czytam książkę Danikena
starożytne UFO ląduje na antenie bloku
"wpadliśmy na kotlety" - mówi kapitan
jego hełm przerzedza brzask
w załodze ma same nordyckie blondynki
odliczam godziny do startu
gapiąc się na ich tyłki
dzień będzie długi
niczym UFO-rozgwiazda
o którym nie powiedzą nic
w dzisiejszym dzienniku
babcia zwinie kotlety
i kosmitki odlecą
gdzieś w Aldebarana
zostawiając blok w bagnie
w które w końcu się zapadnie
gdy nadejdzie czas wszystkich sąsiadów
to było piękne UFO
westchnie żydowski skryba
i zapisze rok 2000
jako datę pierwszego spotkania
ale oni byli już nad Tunguską
ratując nas przed zagładą
albo tak przynajmniej twierdzi
Pan Witek

***

appendix of golden-mouthed purple
someone's playing a simple punk riff
my grandmother makes chops
every shit from the neighborhood loves them
some don't have grandmothers anymore
so they are conceitedly jealous
but they drink compote in silence
imagining that it was lined with LSD
I am reading Daniken's book
ancient UFO lands on the block's antenna
"we ran into the chops," says the captain
his helmet thins the dawn
the crew has only Nordic blondes
I'm counting down the hours to take off
staring at their asses
the day will be long
like a starfish UFO
about which they won't say anything
in today's journal
grandma will roll up the chops
and the aliens will fly away
somewhere in Aldebaran
leaving the block in the swamp
into which it will eventually collapse
when the time comes for all the neighbors
it was a beautiful UFO
the Jewish scribe will sigh
and will record the year 2000
as the date of the first meeting
but they were already on the Tunguska
saving us from extinction
or so he says
Mr. Witek

"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...

Tadeusz Miciński in my translation, excerpts.

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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