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
