"Kosmische"

Trawię przestrzeń pustych gwiazd
Chłonę prekambr chudych lat
Dzwonią dzwonki butów łat
Stawiam się na podium miast
Na kosmodromie las
Na elektrowni kwas

Oddycham, jest dobrze
Przechadzam się
Kosmische pierze mnie

Odkurzacz świetlnych manier
Podąża moim śladem
Wspomnienia palą lodem
Makabra głodzi jadem
Na kosmodromie drzewo
Na elektrowni niebo

Wybieram, jest ciszej
Odradzam się
Kosmische drąży dzień

Twarde dzieci ostrzą noże
Gdzieś w kosmosie szumi morze
Czytam czyjś zbiorek poezji
Rozważam aneksję amnezji
Na kosmodromie świt
Na elektrowni mit

Wymieram, jest głośniej
Wyprażam się
Kosmische pali mnie

"In the House of Galactic Women" - 10 poems by A.J. Kaufmann.

“Wax Hurricanes”

Weathercock century
pass
collision mistress accept
sweet land moment
for melted farmers
of scat misfortunate void
hiding death's hearth
in mood pockets
 casting moving perfidious dinners
their melting bullets of karma
 dropping glass
psalms on head land love
murder new play's apex
blast pines bending

painting
intoxication town
struggling with ropes of horizons
drunken chewing gum summer

drooling clock of loons
voyage us up
and kiss them
the world
morning edge in fast forward silence
pitch curl clicks of answers
point blank districts on voice peninsula
stripping cliffs
and old tribes chanting

in their blew corners was word
church apples along the current
crashing hats
 pursuing breath
heartless singles in the dressing room
magnum dancing
dark on -  driving engine street
zigzagged palms rock
 spray folk and canvas streamed
interpretation of a tropical raindrop
in semicircle winds revolving life's pages
or ghosts of ships
wax hurricanes
on two crust lanterns
approaching

“A Welcome Play”

A welcome play
another take freely
on mind element
far deepening
milk wind
mushroom wear
fly holidays
eyes world comfort

plum field reminiscence
applause dusk warning
those impatient to the
fullest been
bean strike habit
sweet paradise language
galaxies my rain
enthusiastically waiting outside
pouring

A welcome play
blood book sun
drunk fairy dirt
on bone arch
rag veins
sunshine let shrine
businessman's summer adventure

urban jungle flashback
lad of choirs
precious queer thing
mist cry shaken heart
figurative saint umbrella
welcomes written drops
of cat food and music
experiment down, Earth
calling all bodies

A welcome play
angels bald in harvest
love makes tea homes
falling conquered
moss speaks of the crop
cruel birds name songs
death happy
it was the folded season

“At Cafe Marx”

fast funky flight
on pseudo-Indian spirit parachutes
late 2013, a man I should turn to have seen
Luna Lenina, like someone from a z-movie
or early dystopian books
came doddering the brave sultry dawn
on a black pomada fluttering saucer
labeled unflyable
by hack eye
arcane fingers
suffocating in her tides' investigation
she missed our nature trails
but we landed in bed together
at quark lakes' bottom or in swing chandelier rowboats
dawn rainbows, in Earthly tongue
high and highly Germanic
playing arrhythmic acoustic guitars
writing awful poems
dancing to the tune of '68 Detroit
like it was still a dream of future generations...
bad apple baby, chocolate-coated
Cafe Marx is now closed
Berlin in aluminum fruit cans, rotting
pineapple soda remains
tastes terrible

“Chrome Tree Chirrup”

born white polluter
she kissed the humane killer om/on the masthead
pasted me blind
in writing process control
sleeping problem case
but, heigh-ho,
we found eject buttons nonpresent
onwards then, from pale 90s
golden garden garage America
lead galop
topographical banana with a wrecking bar
plus minus garbage
run the bikes, old Angels
so we can dawn the present
safe
in from the future death mess
of chrome tree chirrup
teaching to kill
the primal forest dusking
new breeds

„Junk Whales”

soft junk whales we, on frostbitten forks
of bigger giants
traveling irreversibly
with Polaris
a puzzler of drugs and faces
her inspiring neckline
compared to new New Mexico
or new moon on basalt lava donuts
vitamin mumble hey boobs
lead story was
the sun at night
became
her murder mural mansion
cut-price hippie cathouse
full of fast food books
hanging there in lunch space
boiling with my sex
old sci-fi stories
kids' love poems on riot bricks
served early with mate through the bedroom window
a fibre optic ghost of time
drifting on Afghan clouds
pushing
retiring to their sky hash
and drift bones
jamming with Kupferberg
or someone else unlike him

„Aftertaste (Freedom Pack)”

she dealt with fake 60's paintings, trip advisers, laced vodka
love?, why
yes, because she's my woman
I'm high on
Luna's naive scented schedule and 16y/o plans
rock cake carving climber
where toll neutron stars fade in from
run-up mock incidental music
I thought I composed
breathing her
out of a teenage dictionary
blah,
flute multiplier
to radio anarchy echo
then „Space Hymns”
hey baby, you've got to listen to this...
„I'm gonna screw you”
in astral years of flesh's parody
the aftertaste
of our latest free freedom pack, gazing.

“Dial x for Diagram”

I sing for
dial x

unsweetened part baked beach bum
sends cryptograms to settle
shell for memory
eyes for submarines
added time
wide aghast

stream the noct mechanisms
heavy up your skeletons

glass hours on Venus
mellow signals from
the Moon
blur voice
police
part science piece brain

trade
orange grove
for rebus holey stomach
megaton heart
for junked on psych rares
on youtube

whose heels click last

lowborn gang boy / nod nymphet
fragmentary time
dial x for diagram

“Scientifica Fantastica”

venom treasure
comfortably grass, drifting butter of soul
thundering away
use me as a coat
fly me like lead
in the rain
paste my figure into the
old town
cut out
vacant buildings

I'm showing suicide
there, fiction on love and invasion
of wish combinations
space art shadows
released automatically
angel's ship, stripped to boneyard
for the masses
drifiting to scales in headquarter heaven
dirt
direction-finding

rising
perhaps we all are scales
or fish
and should just quit
accepted into the
 contingent grown
filling camps
of  lids followed afternoons
lifted off
children chimneys
blood as weapon
play with what your mind learned
resistance

my satisfaction,
you're not whole anymore
quartz dark feather
rock hand structure
copy the sea you're on
or, lost, continue
 rum caught plain girl
you and your, ahem,
 saturnine years

we call you
Scientifica
baby

“So Lotion”

haunting the sky
little ghost in a shell
dayglo muesli girl walks by
you haven't had lunch in 5 or 6 days
the long worn shadow home
in a bracelet cup

morning got soaked in that gasoline smell
of a rigorous night
we're all on ourselves, that's life beyond time
glam of handrails follows me
down neonic moon
everything tastes like cardboard or piss
spaceport to sunrise we are all cheap
fries
the weatherman's phony so blame it on him
fry doom

flaxen product of her hair
takes you up
& you lift off
climate's gone crazy but nobody cares
totalize the unclimbed croon
of love
into sand zone
& moss

buses and borders sunk in from the rain
so lotion
asbestos cuddly toy
taking me out to dark clubs on the 9th
that a boy
dead hog cops patrolling the streets
so fashion
what a joy

“Calico Eyes”

She's time, hollow matter, lord's hair
cool written deaf December
her fingers played a recent cloud's
bass strings
bum-poets flat
fever accents

on sound islands jazz dub
she's one, eating eggs at
a.m. hemisphere
violin wave veil
she paints sun

shut up, paint sun on a
Mead
owe
or
men in a Mercedes, night nectar
wake war lies

river wakes up too long after moonset
churches
the first unfolded singer
rewriting her balcony's color

a little world (untranslatable, concealing) ran dashing
to peace s
lowly with Ulysses'
French laughter
another mountain down

superstore pensive moon
shines on consternation's ups
where Prozac birds mildly X-ray the earth
in dwarfed deservedness

uncle empty glass says sister,
hide your calico eyes;
light cascade,
pawn your last mistake.

"Odbite w Spadającej Gwieździe"

W Zehlendorfie pada śnieg
Kosmiczne syreny śpiewają
Z okna widać zimy brzeg
Ptaki odfruwają
Gdzieś samotna świeca
Skrzy się w progu
Z łatką bunt na plecach
Śpisz w kotliny stogu

Las i zoo
Odbite w spadającej gwieździe

Na pętli świateł
Spoczywa ręka malarza
Gdy nadarza się okazja
Maluje czysta fantazja
Pod masą łatek
Tkwi zgniły kwiatek
Śpiewając punks not dead
W tańczącym wirze mew

Las i zoo
Odbite w spadającej gwieździe

Dostałeś zakaz na symptomy
Miłości
Dostałeś rzekę i jarzmo kości
Pontony nieobecności
Gnomy
Tańczące w nicości
Skrzaty galaktycznych manewrów
Siatki perłowych nerwów

Las i zoo
Odbite w spadającej gwieździe
Jak to szło?
Czas i zło
Odbite w spadającej gwieździe

"Wyjątkowo Długi Szlug"

Cmentarny świt
Spłowiała aura
Daleki piorun
W niebiańskim łożu
Kaleki umysł
Infekcji karma
Szalony dzień na
Zmartwionym morzu

A z Berlina pędzi zug
Wyjątkowo długi szlug

Makowe traumy
Ażur zdjęć
Droga do domu
Jak wypalony pręt
Kto jest autorem
Inwersji ról
Kładź wszystkie karty
Na parciany stół

Bo z Berlina pędzi zug
Wyjątkowo długi szlug

Punkowe riffy
Zbożowe płatki
Zakłóceń wizji
Początek dnia
Dziś gram na basie
Jutro na kwasie
To w jakim stroju
Jest nieważne tylko graj

Bo z Berlina pędzi zug
Wyjątkowo długi szlug

"Acid in the Lucid Air"

It's spring and everything's in bloom
But I prefer the shadow of the moon
It's night and I can hear you talk
It's day and I ain't seen you walk

To me you're acid in the air
Acid in the lucid air
To me you're acid in the air
Acid in the lucid air

I think I remember your dream
I stole the plans for your machine
It's love and everywhere I look
Holy flowers replace your saddened books
Concrete breaks my heart no more
There's grass and seeds of time on the floor

I work in the shadow no more
I work in the shadow no more

I'm child of space again
On gamma rays
Driving through the streets
Of broken days
Speeding radioactive on my bones
Throwing all the kings off their thrones

To me they're acid in the air
Acid in the lucid air
To me they're acid in the air
Acid in the lucid air

"Mythos"

No more love at the cemetery
Remember easy rider's paths
Pain no longer necessary
Woman's love – forgotten past
Electronic eyes are looking
Through the lies of rock'n'roll
I'm no longer making music
I just had my share of gold

Magic – cheap FX
Life – frozen ash
Mythos – now exposed
Old LPs for sale you'll never know

Silence kills the gentleman
Screams make rockers high
Nothing better than old heroin
Served on clear blue skies

We all watch the news
Grinning
Supermarket churches
Sinning
Ego driven bastards
Winning
Slow impatient madmen
Scheming

Love – stolen rose
God – how banal
Weight of the world
That's no longer mine

Mythos now and women
Bands of old and wine

Silence kills the gentleman
Screams drive rockers wild
Nothing beats old heroin
Served on clear blue skies

"Gravity Pool"

pull cigarettes/handles, accordingly to taste
drool over girl's matter
we came
unwanted
sailed sky
uncertain
in a pool of kiss gravity
on blood rhythm circulating
empty rehearsal rooms
where only one capitulated singer
practiced death sighs
so, empty, it's not a description
through a million girls over which
he drooled
until saliva tree grew out
of/by him/her
the scarce observer
great connector
here, have another dot
pull another sky straw
enjoy your drinks
another occasion to party like that
won't even come in next
plasticized life
that's the closest you get here
to death, my friend
the closest you pull
out of love pools.

"Band of Outsiders"

caught them playing
at Tacheles
sometime in the winter
air was tight
their drumkit
I smoked Poznanskie
and gazed at the projected abyss
as if my music, my words
were coming out of the speakers
in German
specific smell of vanilla joints
that godly wave of freshness
circled among us
their singer
she had great jacket and stockings
could've been me/mine/her moment
two dates before
their guitarist
a blazely trio on a Berlin afternoon
locale sketched
on moon napkins
we should really go to sleep
I thought to my girl, and she nodded
comprehensibly from behind her lashes
that yes, the band of outsiders
is over
before their bassist
yawns
and dusts off that expensive cigar
on his amp
now, the show begins
for the rest of the bar
it's open!

"Naked Bar-Do" - Complete Poetry Chapbook.

1985 – The Sky Has Learned the Jive

bass mechanic overload
cloud crossbones shaped pirate
news radio kosmic knob
turner
evening in Brixton
transmitting sound systems
through open British air
intercepted behind the eye lashes
of space
I dawn mayo beats punk
on freshly stained graffiti walls
washed off from yesterday's party
with puke streets echoing
distant jam sessions
backing bands and star brooms
I buy another record at Sister Ray
tramp on the folk life
easy used item
and, amazed, turn back to days
of receival
it's
Calvert Avenue
1985
revival of countryside fair speech
Che Guevara cheddar.
Taste the revolution!

Bird’N’Opiate

how British of
small nonsense
her sweets his///bird’n’opiate what’s up – I’ve heard the
sleeper drained the -peach, or what it was she
carried instead of purse speech of /rob the fashion
robbers stoop & red graffitis – yep, there
might be bop brick note to free jazz clouds repeating eating ting
things – bead/rain
clouds on brick spikes///bread
what was the image who was linguistics
was – have you decided for dogs swift the solid drift pass Baker
Street – babe, I’m not a tourist – my paths were there marked
1968 before through
cut screens I
cry
confuse it!

Carry

drunk eggnogs laced w/ acid
served in the hall downstairs
tickle the ego bombers
who’ve never seen the oceans
they only battled seas
& seas have won again

show us the strip-club drunk Annie
dock-borne vagabond mourners
to golden solitary antennas
on space communion soot-shielded rooftops
dog-headed angels of karma
dawn coyotes of the chimneys
silver-faced winos of the railways
twilight freight train tripsters
ragged echo-driven death-tramps

show us the membrane of earth
beaten roads of dust devils
show us the gutter
hook us up w/ the dukes of it
carry

Dedicated To You, But You Weren't Reading

Is the war / began or is it just
Jupiter / swept us over the head
the alleged bass god, or people finally heard the original, passing
on the street
plankton concrete
last summer weeds juices digest
clinics and office buildings - those who provide assistance, they need it most
they listen to the wrong wave
they climb the wrong mountain
once belonging to featherheaded pearls
sink into selfthought prescriptions
fortunately for panic paleskin
demon
chained to machines - tom-toms
beat.

I play as all
at the same time - I do not recognize borders / material
and the last time I was here, in June
I remember some flowers
galaxies
the cities there was nothing
but build new, not
unlike
the sun, as in the past - and the stars
hang over another head, but fish scales
hand remember continents
once broken up, now occupied
and wherever there is a war
squandered / the flick
fingers lives, we land here and now
developer wars look - you
eyes yesterday's savior - maybe
you have - those eyes - I will keep the soul
on antisocial patrol, and so
I scalp the tissue of your Nietzschean superman

crazy!

Dream Dealer

woke up toke wake up Brixton heat jewel
rain reel surf of London – cheap
plane dig pavement bloodshot soul – piss
desert; but then again I patted
masters of storm – the beasts of
sun death hymn & a billion dreams were
canceled w/ the flight – a
jungle; but then again I couldn’t find
a soft bench – run crowd drown I don’t care
cut scream dawn I offer -oh oh oh we’re on it!
song void hips a’berry – doomwise repeating
yawn hymn: wake up woke up Brixton
dream dealer was here

Slums of Berlin

I flipped the slums of Berlin
for a small countryside church
Metropolis for
Georg John's birthplace
Nibelungen
for Lana del Rey
& other names & slogans for love
that's not sawdust
grind

oh, and Eno
for
radio

I laughed in that church - cause the
priest didn't know
my tune, and now I have to learn
his

best trips
are
accidents - ask the famous
a-bomb
London's next
first flight sandpit paper

philosophy? redundant
in the great dawn
of sane

with joy
I flipped U-bahns
for a convertible
hot stripped streets for country roads
pale neons for
railroads
speed for adrenaline drive
taxi drivers
for a chauffeur star
driving me round
like a king

I don't regret
the slums of
Berlin

they showed me where I belong
not
in the courtesy
of
disasters - fake friendship
of tongues
speaking only of
failure

my star showed me music
as I expected it to
be
& fuck guitars
in the right place, safe
on a woman's lap
breathing the petrol

writing songs for later

to show the children
some tricks, & prove that rock stars were dead
long before
Elvis was born

to save new generations
from monstrosities
of art
& the parody of
ego

The Wall, yes, and everything

did you leave? “I'm burned out” - said the young man
arched in the Wall's keyhole
glimpses of his blues orgasm
grasshoppered yesterday
at the barber's
unless you know who churned his hair,
I'm sure he was riding the same U-Bahn
in the opposite direction
asking awkward questions
to nonexistent conductors

I “was” yesterday - grunted, stare-i-lizing in empty
eyes of the chick in a branded suit
listening to the producer
carefully choosing lyrics

revolutionary repertoire!

his time was running out - “was”
I felt sorry for the young - my time has not begun
I hooked myself shaving w/ a trickle of blood
still hung on the chin

musicians threw brands, I would like to be him
20y/o again
I was not much older, but the young man sighed again
- I'm a loser, wanted to be
praire poet - boy,
I thought sparks of life fled here
The Wall
& everything

in nature –
natural
it's not a matter of years, but
look at me, young communist carcass
which still smells
of guerilla perfume dawn
and never has enough
of deliberate, final
kicks from its older, obliging colleagues

onwards, westwards!

While Listening to African Fusion

there’s root
seed
& skin
a beat to follow
phase to exit
equator
dusty yes & go
heat to turn
off
electric kilometers
words
used
a million times ago
con artists’
sand
why stop
ecstatic music?
there’s country
all over the concert
its free flags waving
dust red
bass lines
there’s soul
to plant
in your brother’s
bohemian roof
garden
shoot at the
summer
moon
think of names
& wires
oh what do they mean
to free
flags?
what are isms
on drum
beats?

horn

lunches been-ins suggestions kisses
guests numbers sweet information
modern intelligent olive bowl shadow
unresponsive sky hissing tongues

shy luggage high noses nicknames
afternoon frankness strings dinner mixture
knowledge rites continued dreams
indian night radiant chimneys
new garage knees sun cold coffee
tame child kissing dawn red lips
frantic foreign script bathroom tiles
horn horn horn
three times

Vacilla

saturday boardwalk
pawn neon night
quirky buzzing place bells
in penetrating wilderness
I hear the beat
of every shadow
that slowly sticks
gums in
my neck

marlboro whiskey
women jinx darkness
sterile eyes sleep erratic step
in penetrating wilderness
I hear as I go
supporting umbrella
in rain sprinkles
needles

I hear breath of gates
sluggish pulse
corpse impulse
of the
damned souls
waiting for signal
to guess that this is the
this is the
today

after all
I should rise from my
broken knees
hands drawn up
but if
you
will you
give me your

4 A.M. 5th Cup of Coffee

slam the wing boy
break another seal

bongo jazz
rockets on
roof-tops of colony – just an image
walking by
the room and moldy labels

rotten veins
staring at the porn spread
thinking of descending markets
not wanting poems
anymore

slices of death
and teenage waistcoats
selling what poetry
doesn’t

smart ass wanna-be
philosophers
eat rich bread with honey
leaving me matchsticks
and Colorado
cigarettes
American in name
communist in taste

to them I’m an Indian
meal on their pan
thirsty for blood
to review
for their own
egocentric
purpose

play that jazz, pharaoh
I’m skill scene,
suckers.

From the Glass Hill Down

that summer, she said, each man received his award
that day
saints restored to nirvana
that hour
our bum bags were empty
though dust poured out of them
& that was fair payment:
the promised
anesthetic
gold

!finally

we scattered it
cross the death board, & the chariot speed
convinced me dust is heavier than iron
or chains of love – both
never let me down

w/ each kiss
she assumed
stars are of gold,
though to me they're steel ship filings
dropped from ports
of oceanic cavernousity

hung on
somewhere 'twin law & intrigue
your blue eyes don't catch –
there's power
& a green screen
of
high definition
meadows

they're all I see in your soul
spreading the plague of fame
washing sidewalks w/ subconscious mops
of
art dressed as
ignorance
breakfasts served
in a glasshouse

Stoned, with Oceans Separating

interest unwrinkled
cap came
wanted her – burned late (I answer only
for my friend
and nostrils)
you left and the well-cut
laughed
impassive, distant-coffee, quietly
black
big tree drop, accustomed to my almost singing;
hear the stop
you for he, about to play over happy
be her seen
cannot predict
my future
turning beautiful
was perfect; but the unspeakable
is least predictable
to interest you
came to this or his
who cares
we’re stoned
with oceans
separating

Patternless

old fat angels
flaming word statues
fish cut audience
rich and rolling
cave faced birds…

…need to tell you
one thing:

if street music
had the weight of playing on seeing
an opera ticket
theater would dawn upon
the ghetto - church-like cough or laughter
would settle pain
as I’m pulse
leading to
dessert discovery

no need to say whose noise’s been
the loudest
the old man in the back row
holding to his shoe
leaves without answer
re-enters ghetto
laughs with death gods, at
the bulk of us, preferably sane,
in the routine
of crazy futures

The Enemy

I’ve been to those workshops
free gigs
bookshops
dueled verse w/ best
American
pistols
had those pills
took the last
laugh
wrote two million
novels
centered round
death, one good poem
per six years of journey
festivals
beer pals
doctors & mystics
had them quartered
cotton blues
that bodhi earthquake feeling
gave blessings to strangers
miles far from edge room
rode elevators of improv
on blind necks of dusty
balalaikas
pulled into late
situations
wrecked
w a/ crazy curled
goddess
jumping from bridges
handholding

on every writer
a price tag
on every corner
a lesson:
the market is a weapon -

- the enemy in my bed
growing stronger
in numbers.

Ra?

instant continents drive on
looped food
studied papers are everywhere: acceptance,
the discussed mind; age
and thought as scraps
walls cloud motor
idealized, poeticized –
climbing aboard
hair buses, expecting cage wishes
to end
where highways develop
clustered tasks and metal Ra – out
there collapsing
extra traffic
being weights nothingness
mere bagfuls of happy
where far eyes have desertion
on the rocks
in a beautiful uphill house
in vacant gardens
watering a took seen afternoon
pathetic money
on rotten eggs
laughed born belonging

All That Electrical Stuff I Can’t Be Bothered With

pale tobacco speak/
pattern, had ghostly out follow
and clarity left – not warranty

upon laugh copies descent
many small terrific scampering
like magazine boy
friend – who punishes those at standstill
no whole of their hands – the
within

stone flat under
your bloodless shirt
science – police access waters

all you kill
beg for
is work drug action
cloud segments drown the shimmering idol
of death

won't eyes, the gate, rip robot thought
instant at open, be careful with that machine
cooked body
make no motion
he who whites your exertions
now eats Alan’s breakfast

Cliffs of Victoria

cliff-like slow man – Dante creature
across the western terror
crawls, endless supply
of loneliness
in unclean tubes
of words
forming snow bird
grotesque

oblivion was the tangent
expression
circumstances
trial
“we are the end” – imbecile
voice, boiling

lifeless hemispheres
whine
some were eyes of the city
living
expression

patience was the call girl
interesting
discontented
bitterness
“she is the way” – buried
height Victoria

Unbreakable Spirit

He who lives in Getz’s solo
broken colored glass
half-broken windowpanes
tangled sorely in a ball of
surgical threads

he who sleeps w/ Verlaine
breathing underwater
nourished by the sun’s afterglow

he who speaks w/ mice
singing pavement cantatas
w/ a tail

he who walks
the city tops
trawling under its puddles
of resignation
as in the daily breeze

he who confronts the shadow
dancing
in smoky cabaret
partitions
in the red light
of cancan

he who never sleeps
& never changes rags
looking everywhere
where refusal can lurk
radical
call & response

he who copulates w/ angels
to trade them later
w/ demons
for a handful of
budget
cigs

he who never dies
& never really lived
he who calculates maneuvers
of self-destruction

he who knows
& feeds supreme
pigeons of rhythm
burping loudly
smiling

he who lost everything
he to whom Buddha
looks up to

Ride the Flower U-Bahn

Berlin, four seconds to midnight
happy routes took beastly
course, straight to
modern heaven, dismissing the post-
wise pill droppers apply
to their suits, honey months
passing with the show girls
young ears cheeks in circle
modern heaven

is there “plan two”, in case
the big smoking arm of law
ray guns wiser fingers
beginning station again, beginning
boy and line – hurrying not to miss
the flower u-bahn
kiss the flower u-bahn

by common blood
we’re dead civilization
impelled by facile knowledge
grey down silhouettes
smoking from the all-knowing
stand skull
drilled into locks
on menagerie cells –
young skulls learning
inside

invincible tombs
watch busy bare years
an agony

No Fun

it was fun being part of
the local punk scene
when I sniffed glue with others
playing bass
copying Ramones
idolizing Vicious

it was fun being part of
the folk scene
where punk background
provided interesting solutions
to whatever was the tradition

it was fun being part of the
small press scene
where cliché words and beats
were hot, and the words I copied
from folk songs
made money
but not for me, clearly
it was fun being a poet, songwriter,
musician, in front of categorizing
eyes, it was fun pretending
well-read, when all I ever used
as sources were either “Finnegan’s Wake”
or “Junky”

it was fun being hooked on Swans
and other mock gods
while all they ever did was
phlegming along the shit trail
thinking inner demons matter
I thought that too – but then I encountered
real ones

and now, after some short time on the side road
of being post-this, post-that, this –ism, that –ism
understanding more but encompassing less
I rarely care or argue anymore
I find myself in the same spot
poor and uneducated
listening to Stooges’ first
meditating on apple seeds
thinking how it was all
no fucking fun

Peace
Victoria Park, Berlin 2008

I value peace… spitting out pieces of teeth
scraps of broken vinyl
I deal with the beast
on a kitchen chair
tuning my banjo, smiling to the photograph
of an American Poetess
I make coffee – it smells of gasoline, the city
crawls up my veins, the spider-pump
flashes cold electric light
laying shades on faces behind the window
a gigantic eye collects
the evidence of madness – searching through files
isolated wards
heaps of yellowed scrapbooks
I value peace… counting blood drops
on my room divider

You Are Today

I raise my eyes
The street is empty
Free of
Complicated people
No one talks loud
Nothing troubles the wind
Beyond time
Doesn’t mean timeless
But maybe
We still have a chance
I open my hands
Let go of the summer
Watch trees
Stage
Voiceless heroes
Leaves are traces of spirits
Left out to dream behind
The laser-beam spectacle of corpses
There, beyond the silver
Incrusted clouds
Of awareness
Easy music
Drifts around the antenna
There’s nothing
I wish I could change
But sunlight wakes me up
I have to fix my face
Leave this room
Close my eyes
And glide
With the sidewalk
To the only open house
In this district
There I’ll drink coffee
With you
Whoever you are today

Warmer, Obituary

warmer?
footprints
on the
wasteland
comfort beads
of sunlight
blues for the kiddo
flashing
tears for the old man
under
ground
enjoying sleep
warmer?
will you question everything
'till words become
irrelevant
questions
absent
there you go!
another wasteland
conquered
life wiped out
that was there
existed before
your entry
what tears to cry
old dog
mantra of the slum city
what cities to inhabit
star face
of the quasar column
writing obituaries
for space
on freshly born weeds
of a planet

That the, the it me

me at fifteen
me at hundred again
heaps of has
did
gone mad, steady
city voice wiped free
new flat
new car
television face
her holy
initials
bagful of no
words
non-feathered cowards
left out
both persons mistaken
for drifting
me at birth
me at death
just words
breathing fleshless
feet up
coating years
in difference rippled
between
I died in Berlin
September 2008.

Sky, Oh Sky…

sky, oh sky
old swaying sky
on bamboo flags
fixed vermilion green
am I struck
crystalline
in black wintertime
am I you
silent from craggy jars
making flashes
that star-hang hummingbirds
them and the river
law will shadow the stream
petals, lost
moods & pines
in curry wash of rain
flute love shade burning
vibrating long away, burning...
your body beneath the path
bowing to the grasses
ugliness & laughter
love the glimmer you walk
another one won’t come

Cherry Tree or Rainbows

cherry tree, oh cherry blossom
scene pine iris red
when winter rainbows
blow you
flapping scattered
while
harlequin vines wind
& toss
scarlet resting desires
dreams falling cloud long
patient huddle listening
to dead songs
love lit night masks
dusty paper & waves
in city silhouette

Picnic Bubbles

forgetting autumn
grow your thoughts
beyond autumn
frowns on the willow
wine twittering in skirts – the scarlet pilgrims
love parasol? fierce roofs
harmonies on a leaf
drum-tones written & played by
whoever first said
waves are wind
fugitive rose, what it’s like in autumn
I forget: mists,
pilgrims,
buds tinkling broken
they’ll spend a deathless spring
in troubled ages that read
“violet weariness of love”
but lovers continue earth picnic
smoking bodies leave fear
a breeze only blows through
great marsh trees
broad fields
brown-blue may moods
silent canes haunt
their long masks
hanging on the rocks
bubbles

Seed: “Japanese Prints” by John Gould Fletcher
Ambience: “In die Nacht” by Asmus Tietchens

O Panama!

O weather forecasts
on sharks' wit
sweet nature reserves
vs
parades of sequins
O Panama
about marvelous refuge
I sing
O Panama
the great equalizer

transmit my thoughts
to far visage
O display windows
time will brew
journeys, tripmen
O Panama!
your churches of plastic
from night to morning
transmissions
freeriding

O landscapes, spaces
lights & turnpikes
O fuels, adhesives
profitable puzzles!

Naked Bar-Do

Sitting in the sand, wrapped in
wind unwinding
brain branches pine brainy
beach crazy

who would like a wife
in addition to singing moles
who wouldn't want to hide from the world
in coastal trees
& acid laced 7up

sitting in auroras entangled
before the morning light
sitting clothed in airiness
over the fresh bonfires glow

where are the Slavic girls
fun Sunday nudists
whom even anarchists
chase away from the beach

hear the sirens already,
war
article of clothing commando
-disappears- the corpse from the beach
there, in the naked Bar-Do.

Jantar

Rainbow reflected in Jantar
polarized drops -
their faces luxuriate
a love soaks in the sun
love, what is the word -
you have to be replaced
love, what was the hero -
you have to knock him
unconscious

amber in white sand
memory of childhood
Jantar in plastic bag
taken from sea to city

people, what cupping
you have to let the air
people in the flesh
you have to stop there

before ghosts amount
their
pebbles into the sea
pulverize yesterday's boulders
to plant them like
walnuts:

fences & skies
beaches & dyes
Iodine & ion & terror
of chain landlordian
snares

"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