"Riot Spray"

Ruins of my teeth – I'm no whale
Deserts of my blood
Sick and pale
And far from safe
Get off, punk and clean the grave
Of time
Cause now you're feasting
On eternal shitty life

Product of your excrement
Excitement of tomorrow
Excrement of decent lives
Dirge of entertainment
Plays of love and horror
Same old billboards showing
Same pearly whites
Trash I say, is this
Trash I say, that's I
And who's that I that speaks or writes
Products like this song
Excrement of petrified
Whale blood painted gold

You eat trash then trash it
Trash becomes your food again
You shoot junk and then release it
Junk's this planet's second name
And ain't it a shame – I'm no whale
Who's got the time for a mammal gone fresh
Off the market's table or press
Read your newspaper today
Forget the news
That's written on your white facade
In riot spray

"This is Danger"

Take a shot at Eddie
He's armless
Take a shot at fiction
It's harmless

Myths under the carpet
Myths under the carpet

Stain yourself with life
Stain yourself with life

Careful with these words
Don't promise me too much
Careful with these words
Don't promise me too much

Take a look inside
Theater's painless
Cut your wrists again
I am stainless

Scalpel, dirt and bone
Sounds approaching home
Scalpel, dirt and bone
Sounds approaching home

This is danger
This is danger
This is danger
This is danger

"Annie from the Block Across the Street"

Annie from the block across the street
Heard my songs and read my poems first
Stuck one to the wall on a stairway where me met
Kissed me quick and said my pa just left

There’ll be sex and music all night through
Wine and beer will flow, there’ll be joints for me and you
There’ll be nakedness and magic in our windows pale and gray
And tomorrow morning laughter and the things our folks will say
When we finally get to school both late and torn
With the logic of the moment when our teenage love was born

Annie was the portal into stars
I was dreaming of a lean black car
So I could drive her round to a rock’n’rolling sound
Freely on the highway, out of districts, out of town

We’d disappear forever on the scent of gasoline
Annie had the power to fuel the meanest dreams
Wicked arms and lips the taste of mellow tangerine
She was all the local boys' favorite loving machine
But mine to keep and clean
And part of the catholic scene

Annie, magic girl soon to lady of the town
Everybody wants her, and nobody wants to frown
So her words combined with acid work pure magic on lost boys
And unwilling they become famous actors in a Royce
When the new narcotic vision dawns on early morning docks
We remember and we worship little Annie from the block

Angels are rare, hearts are young
Songs are short and life's a song
Dawn is bright until she smiles
Then we're off to holy night
Nightmares of illusion drop
From the roof of Annie's block
Pterodactyl wings are spread
In my teenage bombing head
Night begins and sacred sex
Laughter, love petitions death

"Extracts from a Drunkard's Twilight"

My mouth, open
breath stinks of the whole
ugly day
that day stinks of
man's whole history
stinking of
chance, unnecessary births
to the bog clouds
of exhaustion, warehouse
blitz & humorous
obituaries
once the music stops
playing

Remnants of matches
stick out like crosses
from my pockets
twirling the highway roaming...
cars - the birds of the handicapped crescent
feeding sky w/ remnants
of someone else's
dream
making that someone happy
bookstoring out of the rust
in my burger
toothpicking ash from the heart

Ugly the word on the block
death in the schoolyard, uninvited
teacher; kids the glorious leaders
of rebellion, now grown up & married
to sex-shop telecoms
transmitting orgasms like candles
sometimes transmit
the bareness; nakedness of priests
tied to perfumed chairs
of lottery; honesty of night,
drawing straws; the lucky ones
are on fire
drink that hard, I dare you
live that quick, you're doubled

My fist, open
used to contain the plot
tables of planes & footprints, left
cautiously stabbing the sky
my only friend I witness, my only
silver girl; companion through the summer
downer, drag corridor, base cake growing
in the oven, someone made dinner
for drunkards, someone took care of my
crosses; & ugliness pales
in the small unhealthy visage
of a sailor
who first brought dope to town.

Fool on a Morn

Pure as banging on spoons
vacant stream of city dump
mind trash floats around me
occupying the fragile antenna
of being; shelving crap for later
waves of noise, exhibitions of sand
metaphoric cavemen
march, while I,
stoned,
cannot force myself
to exhale a simple line of greeting
to the morn – I believe such words
are lost, in Irish folk songs, morn... what is it, morn?
These pancake eyes have seen one at birth
though the memory of an old man
can't pick up the word
an infant screamed, anonymous, into the ugly
vape of drawers, clanking in the kitchen
where his wife made Polish
breakfast for sons of this land
soon battling forwards
against the uniform of sitcom
whatever happens showing
I ought to make some coffee, forget the deal
move on w/ the straight life
go back to women, kids & careers, a path I left
hanging such a long time ago
words, like me, were simple-minded specks
wooden sleep proceeding
bells in churches silent
as I roamed the daybroad sin
pure as shitting on goldcoins
draft me soon, or craft me a butcher
error blood proceeds
whipping the culture remains
gutting down the buttons of a broken down shirt
of a prophet, so I say, morn... what is it, morn?
Should I be sleeping or awake already
planning one more failure
should I be dead or alive
stalking freebie mountains

"Love Sun" - complete poetry chapbook.

Collage #3

white beach, touch of breath
mermaids circling sunbeams
sunrise wakes
the plot of sand
it’s your land, it’s my land
we’ll walk it not talk it
and praise it forever
in hand
red dawn, fireflies
touch your face, a butterfly
consciously aflame
secretly afraid
of the sun

Love Sun

Caught afloat, solar boat
lunar flare of the brave who dared
to blare against the shared
horizon mare

Love sun glows in no time
time void blooms in dark night
love sun wipes the frown off
faces that will know love

Brows of father space gloom inside your brain
taste the spear of venom
purify the veins
brows of mother void circle with the words
carelessly thrown
like useless trash
to drain

Love sun glows in no time
time void blooms in dark night
love sun wipes the frown off
faces that will know love

Circles and cycles
All there is
Circles and cycles
Solar boat years

Stick Your Love

Stick it to whatever has two legs
soon you’ll lose it fast
without a bow
stick it to whatever runs on grass
soon you’ll need new fuel
and ships of gold

Stick
stick your love
whip
whip the cream

Stick it to whatever recommends
itself as value this or value that
you’ll lose it like a fool can lose his grip
on this trebly mess called
reality

Stick
stick your love
whip
whip the cream

You’ll need new rockets, new astronauts
new pioneers on western skies
new engine roars above this globe
you’ll need all this to save the love

Last Gasp

oh why does it taste like this
traces of cheap wine
traces of piss
on the carpet crawlers hiss
lovers share their midnite kiss
while outside the city sleeps
weak and leaning on strange wings
echo children nail their knees
to a piece of wooden bliss
where archangels hit and miss
runners of apocalypse
tortured animals conceive
visions of a foreign deep
deeper than the canyon whip
boomerang and angel pest
giving out the last dead gasp
giving out the last dead gasp

How Good To Be A Child

You wake up like a melody
like a wild horse in the middle
of a stream
you wander through this melody
it’s a forest and a sunrise
rising over wings

that grow upon your back
like a curse that’s going wild
how good, how good to be a child

You aren’t occupied with any big ideas
and thoughts
you aren’t filled with demons
and with ghosts
and all you do is watch the morning
curling while you play
rising like a bright majestic spray

that paints inside your head
like a curse that’s going wild
how good, how good to be a child

Tune Your Guitars Down

too loud in here, boys tune it
half-step down
too loud in here, you can’t
hear the words
people don’t get noise anymore
music don’t need volume
anymore
tune your guitars down
make some room for rainbows
make some room for the sun and the moon
make some space for flyers
that will carry on the news
we no longer need
the loudness in this youth
and in this dream
we don’t need no noise
in this scene
we don’t want no noise

Origin Of Species

dawn on cello planet
brains of wool soak like a sponge
with rays of new becoming
and everything is simple
in the womb of the first one
in the steps of the last one
in origin of species

dawn on a volcano
dance of ash and earthquake
everything’s a snowflake
pressed towards a bright face
of a lover that first sees
what cold stupor eyes miss
the origin of species

Ask For Permission

you shouldn’t be fighting
with your intuition
though some bosses force you
to ask for permission
every time you stretch out touching pink white skies
bosses have you thinking your fate is just to die

Brahma

sky is my shadow
sun is my shelf
wind is my passing
sea is my breath

fear not life in life
fear not death of death
pass me gently by
by me gently pass

stars are my children
moon is my marble
love is the name
encompassing my men

fear not life of truth
fear not death of lie
with me gently walk
walk me gently by

Years Of Lost Culture

Yes, in fact the devils made their job
stand out in the field of weaving what
stuck in golden throats of pigs and priests
new militia demons learned old tricks

and we, we’re stuck, my friend
in seaweeds, in driftwood and sand
watching years of lost culture
passing by
like a sad graveyard-painted
leaden sky

Yes, indeed they’ve butchered all “new worlds”
featured primal myths in herald words
talking proud of land discovery
cutting down the natives just like trees

and we, we’re stuck, my friend
in bloodbaths and orgasms that don’t end
watching years of lost culture
passing by
like a sad graveyard-painted
leaden sky

I Am Destroyer, Light is My Boat

I am destroyer, light is my boat
I am conqueror, my name will be blood
I am creator, my space is afloat
I am the conquered, a creature of mud

who are you to confront me
like you do
life form of this planet
son of blue
daughter of my heavens
now abandoned
children of the cornfield
ghosts of shadow

I am destroyer, light is my boat
I am your mentor, giver of maps
I am creator, my wisdom is gold
you will lay down in a pyramid shape

Collage #12

love idiots you say
ride away
in a pink car
faith lenders you think
move away
with the red light
highways are cautious these days
sun is sterile bulb
income serves the first paid man
silence is the tomb
noise is the solution
of the new institution
of a bright revolution
of consumption repulsion
and everyone is happy with the way things are
served and sold and bought and traded
for that old pink car

"Verse of the Simple Soil", full poetry chapbook.

“Blowing w/ the Corn”

Starfish-headed crank fists
bang on my
door mind
keys of plasma bubble w/ the ventilator
laying finger-rhythm
to my music

Pinboys rows encourage fluxus
of volleyballs dropped by lazy
children
slowly, empirously, towards the
sun, dancing now in a Russian
cornfield
bobbing w/ the funk
DJ

Further images, dunes & sandpits
crackle w/ the current of snow
that frozen summer
whirlwind
lost in the war
plastered internal travelers
whispering thru the megaphonic
starlight

A simple melody, moon-beheaded drop
of lava
on my midnight companion’s
suppressant
head
goes further into the twilight
sleeks, peaks & vanishes
streakily, pursuively

Where pick-blue tiles pave morning
stirren walkers
into the desert
I’ve spilled from the trench pump
last rumorous
affair ago
bleeding w/ the summer
blowing w/ the corn

“The Standard of Anatomy”

A girl w/ a pink balloon
said “they don’t understand
you”

They, who “save their best
lines for later”
& dine beneath the bridge
in imagination
only

“I pity them”, she smiled
& the balloon floated over
my bridge
where Warta played beggar
to the celestials

I looked at the girl & celestials
landed, ‘twin my drink
& lard sandwich – ‘twin rich man’s
herring salad
w/ peaches & apples
on yogurt

Girl said “I’ve read your
poems abroad”
wish I’d known you
some sweet years back
I’d have warned you
of one liners

Sure, the cut-up of city
sounds great, though
too much risk
involved
stops me
& madness tastes good
in theory only
“back out” she cried
celestials took form

Bodies appeared
& voices asked for a guide
thru a city so well described
&, in certain parts of the
universe,
sacred

The river didn’t move
I noticed girl’s balloon
on the other shore
far above cathedral’s
towers
gone

“You picked up the worst place
to land”
tenements fell
into the lazy
water
& there was no trace
of my former friends
celestials
shook off flesh
& gaps
were filled w/ dog howl

They came here
looking for truth
leaving their own
behind
met fleshless communion
blazing
up in their alien
stars

I laughed into girl’s mirror
she held up to my scars
& on a drunken morning like that
I thought of holidays
calling me back
from my childhood

I used to have a pink balloon
like the girl’s one
lost it talking to teachers
studying
finding jobs

“I came not to teach” she giggled
“I came round to learn”
& the morning rolled
into night rolled into evening
’til suns were rising again
in couplets

Celestials moved by wonder
blessed the girly forehead
& stared at me w/ disdain
as I walked the balloon home
to a second story
Chwaliszewo
room

My eyes stopped on the guests
visitors from behind
the Maya curtain
mystic bombers from the
black hole patio
& I laughed in their empty
faces, masters of one liners,
saving best lines for later

There is no later, & the pink balloon
was now
well beyond the towers
hardly visible
carrying girl’s message onwards

Amused by all I’ve heard
said & written
I dreamt of being
back in the shell of my chair
draining the last bottle of
Kadarka
living up
to the standard
of my poor
anatomy.

“King Kong Blues”

Browsing old books
catalogs of donuts – my coffee break has
ended, so did the twang song
smogging the radio, draining the sky
from freshly fallen policeman – feet in
donuts, old catalogs of books, in the library
of excess, whoever reads the story
flushes wind through a random chimney
the story’s a robe of lawnmowers, speeding
thru the main dream, sobbing, drowning in drifting
slangs of e-music

Freedom not only means
being free
of the rushing street, of the soft race
it means kissing the coyote’s forehead
howling w/ him and the antennae, not so far
from your bed, which lover poppy took outside
so you could write w/ the stars
I miss the odd flow of eons
parachuting memories
on nosy thinkers
who’re sure they’ve seen thru my world

I found a well-used book
too torn for me to take home
too dirty
to read in bed
& way too expensive for a random whistler
of a soupy poetic song
but someone once read it, & someone once had it
w/ her, cause traces of lipstick, for him, cause
nicotine spills, who bought this damn thing ages
prowler before – bather in the sun street
sleeper in the star saw noise
tried selling it back to me

Bad deal, brother,
me I got my case
of King Kong blues back home
where goddess black of swamp realms
beats my voodoo nihil
years & years & on, waiting for the ship
to chain the ape back home

“Rock in Opposition (or an Ode to the Corporate Macho)”

Oingo Boingo
on the radio
it must be christmas
my woman’s listening
to quiet days in Clichy
& my pal is writing
a poem
somewhere in far-off Nantes
so much for the canvas
of reference

Anyway, we are trapped here
w/ a class of men
worse than proverbial rednecks
& their ritual grill – thanks god
the rain keeps falling; oh,
they won’t grill this Sunday
& the odor of dead burnt cow
won’t reach my compassive
nostrils

Is this a Dick world?
are those people living
the supermarket holy skies?
I’ve read of them in history books
on 50′s 60′s America
heard their shit sung about
on avant-garden records
of the era
have I jumped in time?
is Poland a heritage park?
if so, of what heritage?

For I have come a long way
from In Utero via Rushdie
to Gysin to freedom
& my beautiful woman
planted mexican flowers
in our sonic garden
a pity the neighbors
are corporate assholes
but we got rich too
& now live in the same district

My dog hates their dogs
I guess that’s so
punk rock
& if I had a son, he’d grow to be
a queer, just like his early
dad
he’d write songs, unlike a macho
daughter
kids would spit in his face
& he’d sing lines from Berry
wearing pajama dresses

I’d crack a can of beer
to paint w/ it generous sketches
but I’m too old for that – the janitor
thinks I’m 30 – must be the drugs
taking shaking baking
after all, opening a gallery
wouldn’t hurt
now, if I had the money…

Art Bears & I wonder what station
have I tuned onto; I wonder what happened,
now that Hawkwind’s in Ford commercials,
insincere business of freaks
grows on the backs of saints
& money’s the landlord
the serf never sees
things might be collapsing
just keep his belly full
& he won’t think of protest
or plot some sort of vengeance
which side am I on; what kind of an ode
I’m writing getting up each morning?

Rock in opposition
word in opposition
flesh in opposition
what? in opposition
form? meaning? ode? freedom?
no – a simple thought I’ve scribbled
on a Chesterfields pack:
In opposition
to some folks
I am not useless
my
dick
completely
is.

“A Psalm for Richie Havens”

Can’t express how you
touched the roof of tongues
no matter the language
& raised awareness
no matter the experience
& kept it simple
for the folkman to enjoy
& the workingman
to get it
poet to pass on the word
victims to stand against
masters
clouds to echo the tune
& stars to resound
w/ amazement

Can’t describe the loss
but am I egoistic?
no such loss occurred, just that
space took its motherless child
back to the soil & seed
perchance to grow more
on other gifted lands
with gifted hands
& voices
where you could smoke on songs
& star out words
for countless future generations
fluxes a-movin’, winds a-blowin’
under alien suns
we’ll never sail to

Can’t pay you back, you accept
no payment, no checks from
woedown poets, sleepless on the tired
angelic moonshields, on a pink moon
night, sinking under
the joy of your freedom
you know they’re too poor
to bless you w/ checks
you know you blessed them
enough
& your respect for tradition
should keep the cosmos alive

The generation dream might have
ended in Altamont, or so the scribblers
said, after your brother got murdered
& books were written, plays & musicals
staged
in places as far off as Hungary
of that fateful day
I’ve read’em, heard’em but the dream goes on
in a folk song
it needs no media to survive
wherever throats are free to sing, no
matter how oppressed
& hands can weave on strings
fingers circle in orbits
around simple D major, things are
usually good
& you, Richie Havens,
are born.

“Van Gogh”

In my favorite bar
there’s a ghetto for smokers
we wear yellow patches from matchsticks

And when our numbers are called
we take our place by the window
rarely seen from outside of
the building

There are joyful shouts of raw dogs
waiting for their meal
of pink slim dwellers
on the fated ark

And the bareness of the waitress smiles
on hurried sunflowers gracing our heads
differing us from the rulers

It knows the ladder down
is turning us to smoke, that will, in time
stick to walls like glue

And those who shoot us ink hypes
know we’ll write their stories
before the last grave is dug

And who is to dig that grave
but ghetto dwellers of my favorite bar
smokers, madmen,
writers, communists,
idealists, realists,
patriots, anarchists,

gurus, shamen, mystics, warriors,
all with a proper patch, stuck on the train / All who are first on the train
to extinction

And who am I to protest?
poet? give me a break -
haven’t heard that word since 1939

And concepts have changed
since then, with the context

“Alleys Behind”

Thought I fell outta
write timeloop
& missed a lot of action
thought the world moved on
w/ its art
I wasn’t around for
years, but nothing really
changed
same stuff excites me; push
it to diners, I can’t get enough
of routine

I sleep in the ugly hat
of serum
drawing conclusions
w/ a chamomile stick
while priests & prophets’
drug & faith play
drag this corpse forever
through ghosts in the sunrise
sums of my beings
rotoscaped on slimy
hotel bedwalls

X-rayed pushers of poppies
dream over roof
tops, cracked from seething sunrays
boiling eyeballs
grilling inners
w/ the poetboy of urbia
vomiting/eating back words
he heard/read or said
aboard the lonely sputnik

Picking up hit & miss transmissions
like an antenna, without sorting
the trash, picking the fruits
accepting as is
the given noise
of space
without own thoughts I’m hurried
back to my boxlike room
to write on the clatter-wall

I’m sorry to say I’m one
some ages after
& alleys behind
from where I’d like to be

“The Rebel”

Koolest old words
brace aerosols
spray the subway
entrails
ice cream sky
outside the station
exists once
or does it, in dream zone
where cheap drug tentacles
‘ve stuck
in
wrung stoic space
dead static air

Feeding on meatball brains
mock angels of drainrails
swimming w/ the dishes
of yesterday’s god
I dreamt of Aztec
fiestas
African rains
& actresses I’ve screwed
in this
underground world
wasting years of experience
serving poisoned flesh
on thick golden sheets

Hunting the chlorophyll
speeders – me, myself, vegetarian
waits for another
u-bahn
w/ a bag full of books
hat on my halo
dog companion sleeping
I sell my story to buskers
glad to say it
upstages them
koolest phrased stalkers
greet me, turn to molehills
of ash

There are hearts, they say, that
never leave existence
souls that never break
the barrier of light
waste their time dying
die away dreaming
of lifting the void
off their body
But koolest kids screw on
they cherish simple art, one I
push for, work for & draw on
plexiglas palms of
order – distinguishing
voices of reason, me, myself,
a rebel,
I move back to my pencils
relaxing sweet Jamaica
I step back to the womb
leaving laughter
of games
behind.

“Sun Solitary Tramps”

Bright Mexican dawn: pastel
bloodbath
feather cordial
dead engines drill
plateaus, october
on king
sings in the valley
of wombs
priceless views
of rebirth
crowd imperial skulls
w/ knowledge
I once wrote ’bout myth
& how it’s pronounced
in these
cruel realms
cruel, in a child’s way, wild
in a death’s way
where nothing returns
unchanged; where prices
are paid thrice, & the clouds
uncover snake queens
worn behind pale windows
of rain; guitars
play on, the drum
from behind the mountain
shakes the cynic’s tree
& whiteman’s fact falls off
rotten, bitter & deadly – the venomous
taste of failure
you’ve lived in for thousands
of years
here schools didn’t exist
church didn’t exist
one law of love
was the only holy way
& other ways were wings
of a serpent – ugly souls
were devoured, sky immortal
saved
but no-one sacrificed
on structures madmen call altars
in fact, lost cities are stations
of space communication
soul exploration
where mountains were flattened
& platforms erected
for brave
in eternity basking
sun solitary tramps
landing on gears
of blood

“Busy Sunflower Bees”

I shouldn’t be sitting
lapsing, again
on this bench
but I am – envisioning lazy
Sonia in every woman passing me by
car hiss honk – sketching
birds
in every beige or white
costume;
cool Germanic dawn; bright autobahn
love –

I shouldn’t be drinking this hard
shouldn’t do stuff, but I do – just
bought a Gillan LP for a friend;
but in my head golden heels
& silk trombones
play VU songs
to diameter of afternoon heights
raw heat
ideas

I took some pictures of buildings -
boredom
& filled straw pages
w/ bullshit
only my dog can read; who can order
this? I’ve nothing for the people

in fact it’s not a poem
& it shouldn’t be writing it
but I do; bus
stop high,
every time a beige suit or blouse
pops from inside the tulip museum
opposite my shoe – hanging
on a bell
singing a blues for jesters
busy sunflower bees
laughing at
a retired writer

“Henry Ford’s Epitaph”

May your food turn to blood
may your cars
never rust
may the rural tune of speed
rotate each orbit
of your tired
bosom; may you find
a material
that never wears out; a metal
that doesn’t melt
in the 50′s atomic sun
of a never experienced
future

let it soar, soar!
written in autobahns
by Mercedes engines
Volkswagen wheels
& nazi pamphlets
no one pays
attention to
we should
when he had a chance:
they were the epitaph
of a legend; labor
devil, dictatorious friend
of the plum knife night

impressed
w/ his dream clod
devoid of life
‘cept conveyor belts
& android manpower
I ran w/ the peaks
he leveled
his spark
automobiles hum
on flat automated lanes
veins of a bright illuminated
city
that eats & shits itself out
each cycle

passing this globe
international Jews
of an alien world
paid no attention
to the requiem
radios kept playing:
bright pop songs w/ volk
melodies; strict vocoded voices
carry
incomprehensible
words
up to the tomb of Henry

words like
explo
itation
futur
ism
no longer make sense
in sterile
Plexiglas wombs
w/ looped tapes
of banned speeches
spinning ad
lib, w/ the wisdom of
his medals

on an after-life
dreamwave, he’s chasing death-white
Tibetan demons, beasts from under polar
ice
a horror to behold – his
& Von Braun’s dreams came true
for the good of us all – Luddites,
the non-producers

you, lucky ones escaping
thru the narrow
planetary
chimney
leaving automated
streets
to greater devils
than us
will you write an epitaph
for Henry
on another
virginal planet?

"Extracts from a Drunkard's Twilight"

My mouth, open
breath stinks of the whole
ugly day
that day stinks of
man's whole history
stinking of
chance, unnecessary births
to the bog clouds
of exhaustion, warehouse
blitz & humorous
obituaries
once the music stops
playing

Remnants of matches
stick out like crosses
from my pockets
twirling the highway roaming...
cars - the birds of the handicapped crescent
feeding sky w/ remnants
of someone else's
dream
making that someone happy
bookstoring out of the rust
in my burger
toothpicking ash from the heart

Ugly the word on the block
death in the schoolyard, uninvited
teacher; kids the glorious leaders
of rebellion, now grown up & married
to sex-shop telecoms
transmitting orgasms like candles
sometimes transmit
the bareness; nakedness of priests
tied to perfumed chairs
of lottery; honesty of night,
drawing straws; the lucky ones
are on fire
drink that hard, I dare you
live that quick, you're doubled

My fist, open
used to contain the plot
tables of planes & footprints, left
cautiously stabbing the sky
my only friend I witness, my only
silver girl; companion through the summer
downer, drag corridor, base cake growing
in the oven, someone made dinner
for drunkards, someone took care of my
crosses; & ugliness pales
in the small unhealthy visage
of a sailor
who first brought dope to town.

"koshalin shanty" Complete poetry chapbook.

“wires”

seas write on sand
crushed rocks of
memory, shells –
compass of the dawn
new light
amber
splashing drifting
curious of the experiential
child
staggering by the beach
bound to pink deltas
of seagulls
caverns of stony flowers
circles drawn on its memory
compass of the dusk
old light shaking
drilling venting
off the curious traveler
father space
mistaken for a lady
giving birth to legend
in spacey hospital tombstones
mistaken for beds
on pines
mistaken
for wires

“giant”

comedy time
this evening
musical time
late night
marathon runner
ethos
soccer oldboy
precision
coked dancer
intuition
junky drunkard
superstition:

eyes failed me
this morning
hair combed not
this morning
girls came not
this morning
beer warm was
this morning
& there’s no coffee
in the cupboard
so much for the mythic
breakfast
of a mad/verse/spitting
giant

“model”

what if tears were yawning
vaults of echoes
crowding corridors
of experience – what if
dunes on which I rest
now, were portraits
of a weedy woman
thrown here
by the fisher
men; basking here
w/ the fauna
of pulsar beaches
crying rain of prisms
touching her body
I gasp
at the majesty of portrait
& wonder how the model
actually looked like
at the dawn of time
birth of poetry
death of the warrior; then
I see her
emerging from the seethe
of darkness
bubbling peace
over sterile
troubled bodies

“menageries”

not much choice
of alleys here
the ones that lead
to crumpled
tene
ments, ones that lead
to central station
ones that lead
to smoggy factories
or post-monarchic suburbs
but who would choose
alleys? photo
lens
dances shyly,
shooting mena
geries, times & “Lord of the Ages”
bought in this town
en route to the sea…

…here, they only have
postcards, real storms blow miles
ahead, fishing boats
are seen as rare palms
where my soft mind’s
smoking joints, while
my body kisses the sun
in a sleazy sailor’s bar

“fablemaker”

it’s not an everyday
child’s thing
to write fables & poems
on fauna
channeling its village
drifting w/ the cosmos
on a microwave
stream
not every child’s lucky
to have inspiring grandmas
pilot grandpas
& freewheeling parents
brothers & sisters
down to serious business
the child the only one
conscious
not buying the TV crap
can you imagine it’s six
or a bit older
weaving ruby hammocks
between most distant stars
resting on them
w/ space devouring squirrels
grinding the cosmic nut
such a funny thing
a true naïve birth
most of us wish they’d experienced

“dekadenz”

there’s nothing american
here; except fickle fashions
that sound
like bad poetry
good poetry
shifting
& things dull teens repeat
like mantra
confusing the hip w/ the hep
cats w/ craps
cools w/ dozies
though dozy convinces
the hell out of me
lonely, though together
phasing thru the showrooms
w/ my latest lover
who doesn’t get it
I bet it, spitting out cherry
flavored gum, teeth as
white as my hair
when did I get this old?
there’s nothing to do here
dekadenz sailing
gobbles half my heart
leaving the other to her
my vulture of the
panoramic icons

“hemisphere I & II”

the joke is on you
not clouds
point is in you
not words
but if you ceased to speak
world would save
this wonderful place
from flyers
containing nothing
but dots
moving on the whirlwind:
breath of wonder
would be landing on
pyramids
in a future-ancient city
where motorik
generators
run; the deeply curious yawn
on a spring lazy morning
clouds in streaks
of pastel, barely dabbed colors
tribes dancing
to cha cha electro
years passing slowly
eating fruits
from mutant trees
planted in the dark
eons ago, so
that no one remembers the seeds…
…utopian drifters do nothing
drinking orange
nectars
from brass goblets
that remember the ancients
who made all this art
but forgot to taste it

we’re all rewriting waves
a child saw on the shore
thru the first eyes
of daybreak
on balmy songs
of a giant lark; on a midnight fire
fall of words
that poisoned this civilization
before its time has come
but tribes keep dancing
on the ruins
of places the generals
called shelters –
moon split in half
sun a brown dwarf:
Atlantis
laying a different pulse
on the hemisphere
of drums

“koshalin shanty”

static. miles of
it
errors. months of
id
a child’s rhyme
plain psychedelic journey
back to the day
when first shanty
was written
sailors were savage
surveyors
perched on sea breeze
radius
humming words the waves
brought on
to the deck
wooden emblems glowing
on a vineyard
totem
shore
times you can’t explain
to minds that
clean-cut truth
eyes that mount
vision
above the only line
of defense

Między Placami

Między placami
rzeka
z mostem skrzonym
trwaniem; skocznym bębnem
wagabundy, toczonego skrajem rynsztoka
w perłowy zmierzch

stąd widać
tradycyjne przyprawy
bopu; rzucane niemo skarbem
odwracalne śmierci wawrzyńców – klasyczne
formy kamienic, pełznące grzybem, pleśnią
w norę wczorajszych bram
przemierzanych przez księcia ulicznic

skrzy się
cukierkowo-plazmowym marazmem, klinicznym
uwiądem serca, dalekopiszącą małpą
zawieszoną na hali przepiórek – och, kto
mógłby spisać miasto, w pełni jego formy
w każdym tagu zostawionym na ścianie
każdy podkreśla byt; jak pies szczający
na kamień

drwi
sęp zawieszony
nad budynnym kształtem
człowieka; spijający pryzmat krwi
z przeklętego bursztynowego nieba
na które ktoś, niczym motyl – księżyc
przyszpilił, wydeptany skrawek skały
bramę galaktyczną;

egzotyczny
szlam jutrzenki, parafraza marokańskich
fletów; dziwne noce nastały, dziwne
płynne schody, po których dzień jak co dzień
wspina się getto

pijacki rewir zapomnień
pustych busów zawieszonych
między kiedyś a nigdy (północ a szósta)
z pustymi płaszczami wczepionymi
w fotele, tramwaje w dnienie, frantyczne
regaty chodaków, wracamy stamtąd, skąd
ostatnie majaki umierającego menela
równoważne są wierszom Rimbaud,
obrazy drwią z artysty

pniemy się skrycie
na dachy
gdzie wiersze piszą się same
anteny zbierają przekaz
wbity w dwuwiersz jak w palnik
błyskający ledwie widzialnym
odbitym światłem
kawy

"Psychedelic Song"

One touch can heal me
One sun can burn me
One kiss can thrill me
One moon can turn me
Like it turns the tides
Playing with my heart
Joking with my mind
All I’ve left behind

I remember girls
I hear them sing for me
You undress and I undress
It’s a simple dream
We keep standing naked
In a garden cold
When you speak or moan
It’s pure electric gold

I can hear my soul
I can hear its wish
Live in meadow world
Free from all machines

Come on to the stream
Wash yourself all clean
Hippie nonsense frees me
When its magic feeds me
Frozen bits of comet dust
Shades of primal lucid lust
I must go where others tread
With the moon and sun so glad

It’s a tribal breathe
It’s new polished beat
Of an ancient tribe
Brought down to their knees
Now they’re free to rise
Rising everywhere
Revolution speaks of love
Every city, every man

I can hear your drums
I can hear guitars
I can see your hair
Playing with the stars
Everything’s OK
Everything’s alright

Everything is fine
Leave your grief behind
Leave the city tomb
Come to golden wombs
Smoke a joint, relax
It’s not much to ask
Of the earth, the sun
Of the moon, we’re one

Think a rare new thought
No one knew before
Free the planet’s birds
Free the animals
We’re beyond all hippie talk
We’re beyond the isle of men
This is something bigger
Outside the human can

I can see the sounds
I can hear the light
It’s too much for me
Think I’ll fall apart

It’s this harmony we hear
Of a special kind
It’s a brave communion
Of naked soul and mind
Let your body drift
On the summer wind
Let your ego sleep
Let your body drift

And when you wake up
With your beautiful eyes
You will look at me
You will see me try
Find your beauty elsewhere
Find it in the sky
What you’re giving me, love
I could never describe

Mother of all being
Way you talk to me
Way we’re making love
In infinity
I can see your hands
I can kiss your face
It’s like kissing god
Deep in outer space