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

"Zeit"

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

"I Forgot"

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

***

„Zeit”

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

"Zapomniałem"

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

"Great American Adventure" (New poem, 2023/09/30).

Dawn starts at noon here
Traces of snow birds
In the middle of highway summer
Cars and pubs
Honesty of pen
Advice from an older guy with a hot dog
Sauce kills
You should try it sometime
Guiding their way through records
Books and memorabilia
Colorful characters
Asking for this, hoping for that
Not really sure what they want
Lost ones, broken free and dancing
To the rattling bones
Directed without meaning
Where are they hoping to find
Who and when
Do they hope to arrive
Or stop arriving at all
When life marks them unsafe
And you thought you were homeless
In this great American adventure

"Passe" (New poem, 2023/09/30).

Your eyes abandoned ships
Cool acidic scent of heroin
I'm not sure what I like
Eating camembert, drinking lemonade
Thinking of the ships past me
I used to be a poet
Had the guitar jangle of morn
Passe

Gift of you
We should be the sun
When urban tides crash in
Preserving end of observation
Your hands and lips a captain
But don't you think

Your course is stolen
Ages ago we set sails
For wild and different young lands
Jungles of Maya
We used to roam together
Now it's sands and bricks
Sifting through the dim moon
Guiding new lovers
We are passe
Get used to / rid of that.

"Nothing" ("lost" poem, 2008).

When we drink coffee
this is philosophical coffee

when we burp
this is a philosophical burp

when we breathe
we breathe philosophically

when we say the most trivial words
we say them
philosophically

when we write them down
we do it for a reason

when we scratch our calf
driving away mosquitoes
we drive them away
philosophically

this is the only (or as much) difference we have
and nothing

"Heliotropism"

I feed and swell
from new paths
non-elected
proper

I digest myself in the sun of the thicket of flavors
I wake up again

I let the ribbons stroke me
orange
gaining strength from everyone
brushes

I grow around my own
meager shores
adorned with cirrus coolness

I digest myself in my juices
aroma

from new paths
I am getting old slowly
I'm turning gray
though the face still craves the sun
only to him
I look

in the meteo sauce yourself
I oppose
I'm cutting myself to shreds
azure

3 poems, 2023/01/18.

The moon, a story

In every man's prison, the demise of god
the stranglehold of life
death comes nearer
in this sunken theater on Sunday
there are times of drunken perfection
there is bourbon in the moon
there is moon in the glass
there is glass behind the wheel
driving to LA
Friday night
where you hope to find pieces
of cacti sisters waving
in a sudden epiphany of doom
there are some who are lost
and to them you have to offer your dance
dance on the verge
of your car
of love
of a story
when time is running backwards
and all your mind wells are dry
true,
you are the underdog here
but you give hope
and light's sunrise
when the moon is total stoned

Static Peace

There are many visitors recently
in the arcana of disaster
lured by the disco stench
of the post-hippie 70s
there are many wars, and people are dying of hunger
elsewhere on the planet
but here, in static peace
there are chances weaved
and water and beer and vodka
are drunk happily
how long will it last you think
you wipe your ass in the morning
and stare at your wife
her picture in the toilet
there, across the tiles
you are rich
you are well-developed
but I tell you, son
bury yourself with the rockets
your richer cousins are shooting at the world
and soon ricochets will blind you
and bury you below the waste
and then you will notice
me and my friends
gathered inside this house
on real static peace
high like the weeds of the city

Amazing

I once was invited to a room with no windows
green lights flashing
trash on the floor
some shared books
and the scent of weed
there was a pianist there
who said she loves me
and then she told me there was a party, hey
and if you feel like
coming over
you'll do your best
to stay
but I did not believe her
I left this room with no windows
and tried to find another room
in reflections of  a man
I saw a ladder
leading upwards
to a room with no doors
and then I felt enlightened
and I wanted to stay there
unbothered
except maybe some friendly calls
from winos and hookers
but blues has its price
and solitude is amazing
yes, brother
isn't it amazing

The TRANSMITTER Symbol explained.

My new album, "Transmitter", is coming to Ramble Records sometime early 2023. The album will be released on CD and digital, and will feature 20 tracks curated by the Ramble head himself, Mike Sill. The exclusive artwork is by Justin Jackley, and he also designed four symbols for me to use for the album cover. Earlier this year I have decided to use one of them as my new logo.

The "Transmitter Symbol" as I call it, is very European in its nature, and it visually combines everything I love about Kraftwerk and Magma. You might remember the simple yet effective Kraftwerk designs, and the simple, yet striking Magma logo also worn as necklaces by members of the French band.

This simple symbol has a similar effect, and it sums up perfectly all of the "genres" of music I touch and perform since the very beginning. "I am just a transmitter".

So, that's it, the TRANSMITTER logo, my new and long-time logo for all things Kaufmann and Majdecki-Janicki. Better than any photo, or a logo with text, a logo that will never grow old. Thank you, Justin!

You can contact Justin and see his amazing work @ http://justinjackley.com

"Years as Gold Philosophy" complete chapbook. Originally published with Books on Blog, 2010.

YEARS AS GOLD PHILOSOPHY

Years as gold philosophy
sky sailing, restricted much
in sweet wallflowers known to be birds,
bonfires, charmingly cold
after-dinner stupidity
hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works
which handed you the sunset
a flake, sky sea-iris
some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,
spout lips dirt-grimed lady-shining
as most multiform scripts
seeds rise, there’s sunlight
familiar rocks, somber love and God
cathedral on press sheets
red at office flanks
glass image  wheels
suddenly without dusk
open you alone,
the way you ripple my eyes,
spread nothing on dead Roman wings
asking the trees for some music – fine jungle halls
to remember
slip poised, together, facing your wings,
conducting the starless sheaf, after all,
we’re finally together

ANIMAL HANDS

World servant on vacation… not my life at all
in reality, I have no body, this tiny veil of sanity
does not cover my bare, bloody bones… these bones
are there for you, to spit on their shade and move on
proceed to your notebooks and passions… it is no den
of comfort, no immortal item… no amulet
of the past or things continued… no miserable material
identifying my sovereign  chemistry… I smoke too much
my soul needs fuel, I drink too much, my blind environment
bleeds for any comfort, shrooms are never Christ
the Light King, merely transitory demands for fiction
ingoing streams of disintegration, windows of bricks, satisfaction
in eternal exercise…  in hearts and lines unknown, voids
and scents of electricity, poisoned crows stuffed with magic
she is clearly Death… broken breath link, faith substance
sighed, the principle view… she is Blake – circled, continual
sweeping of eyes, bourbon is never Christ, a carefully-arranged
dense reincarnation
in animal hands instead

RESTLESS CUBES

Rain falls on our impulses, forbidden formless waves
against sparkles of dancing flowers, shoreward
wet in gallop, hidden along strokes of moonlight
a hopeless song in the wings of dullness

Dead tears, powdered blue gods, furrows of sleep
on bright cruel breasts, beloved rock of sacrifice
never warm, manifold faces of heat, fresh mouths
of bitter rats, terrible children to this country

Dust apples, penetrating the breaking sun, healing mists
of indelicate shining, clamor time, shivering on beds
of frozen leaves, time rises, crying, wistful on fire
to lovers wings, sheets to wrinkled torches

Walking the railway, broke and bridal, unswerving
glades of bohemian roots, square sky fingers, tired
in you, becoming ripples of shell, calm lanterns
vapor of frosty corpses, restless cubes and earthquakes

NOBODY’S BROTHER

Nobody's brother, gray candle in cold sky, burning
dream horizon’s dew, dressed in symbolic birds
fever some more, sighing shriveled, dying
in colder groaning, a beautiful muscle
where roses slept of irrelevant patterns
naphthalene’s bitter vapor cast the day
into full soft deliverance, a mourning summit
I found and sang about, and seeking held into
its demise, waves of impotent walls
pain of roads in stone, healing a whore again
asking for asphalt, stamped departure
of soul, darling black glare, grief beautiful
men… street love, colors of galvanized eyelids
encasing my sand into books of leisure and lanterns
in pornographic pride, shining through my window
vibrating metallic death, stripping again, magma bulk
of ribbon starfish, the rain and spit pools
in playmate brittle collapse
hollowly wrapping humble souls in dreams
they’re not my brothers, I’m sorry

DANCER DRAMATICS’ WRITERS

Leaving the country in secrecy
in a cloak of twilight
two years in splendor
or death
the far appointment

two years in hiding
there, in caused perfect harmony
breeding songs
in fashionable verse
to please the vacuum audience

I searched my time
I spent it unaccompanied
I worked in stillness
sonorous pebble
my tables were of gold

why go with dangerous instrumentation
why scribble jazz
pornography
lack of food
angels
biographies
or dancer dramatics’ writers

POET TERRITORY

New walls rise every day, each man is left
shaking, next to the railroad line, Polish
winters are cruel, measuring trains, scraping off rust,
old paint, aluminum swollen eyes, high speed
dancers on linear glass, falling on every mirror:
the next rebirth is closer, a terrible giant
of bathroom wall graffiti, oppression of dogs
in her camera lens, leaning onto each other's
failure, parting ways with beloved folk, fighting
phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends,
delicate urban deaths, synthetic pastures of god,
time zone choking fingers, while cloths of flesh and dust
uncover the room, so suddenly stripped
off its pride, amazed like you, the woman I'll always lose
and learn to lose again... I'm sorry for the
inconvenience, but this here is cupboard wasteland,
uninhabited poet territory

SAILOR’S BREAKFAST

Her relief appears
drums on a highway
in austere script
chew ultra-violet sun
growl
easy to help you
in last minute sea

of relic brass of trees
phased segments of grief
shine parabolic roofs
in oxygen’s diamond
blood ejected, mild
resembling smoke
dying
waiting

I’ll have some coffee, please
and a dreamlike breakfast
pretty
personal
far from the city
ionic calm

draw groups of flare
on the table
miles of the moon
hot-dogs
soothed afternoon eyes
decades left for further sailors

THE PRISONS ARE EMPTY

Sold my collection of old LPs
let the road shine forgotten
allowed the sands to take my name
packed the basics
allowed the pictures to take my face
improvised over the morning
laughed at the immaculate dawn
raced with the night
& won
found my ex in the same old quarter
her favorite corner
asked if she had the will
if the Tarot reads well
if spiders left apartment
found some ancient wine
took her for a walk
met river tribes
seen no policemen
later found my guitar as well
dusted, untouched
knives and candles
buried well in the veil of names
addresses
blood
case filled with lyrics, notes
& sand
staggered, coughed
picked a proper doorbell
rang twice
yawned to the end of night
I know that bitch too well
found an answer to sleep
curly hair approached
velvet breath
fingers of azure
winter coat in the middle of June
that's me, approach the lover
kisses from your brothers
both are now dead
good to be back
the city looks brave
younger
enthralling
perhaps that's because
the prisons are empty

LEGEND

Flame painted sky opens wide
shows nothing
but slow coke heaven
white walls in ruin
prostitute angels
sucking
the Red Flower
dry
shows ages of spirit's
roadblock
slaves' energy
fragmented hands
groping for earth
where they were thrown
immediately after
the Tree
was plucked
shows nothing
but close dementia
messiah madmen
prophesying a very close end
when it's already
done
& this culture
has nothing more
to offer
but stale repeat performance
feasting on swollen corpses
till it's forgotten
what it's like to
actually
create
how it's like
to be
absolutely
wrong
& sacred
in mistake

SIZES OF TIME, PICTURES OF BLACKBIRDS

Blackbirds framed heavy
full on your branch, familiar to you
dark budding pools of fingers
autumn chandeliers on fire.

We used your dead bridal cloth
feasted on wistful hermits.
stale high skies, kisses of flowers,
ripples of shells from rage to pain.

And thirteen overcast pines, prophesied
of return. Unswerving glade, so young
and cold, singing of deep calm space
mermaids and easy Indian time.

Pointed street, the root of our planet
hollow, laughing, sedated in little
quakes,  crushes the old chandeliers
rushes towards the square sad sky
and makes the blackbirds sing
out of frame.

BROKEN IS BEAUTIFUL FALLING

In unconscious fascination
while floods go planting the city
and girls hum themselves as hope
pulling in small street tails
west-end truths
intervals of the homeless
and damaged deals
take the cabman where
consternation creatures
wild on the road
involuntarily
attach agonized tears
of neglected, vanished
blocks
to illustrated
remains of eyes
taking the city
by hurt
where broken
is beautiful
falling

LAND YOUR MACHINE

Our houses become a prison…somehow paid
with odd requests – cheerful strings not in store
this is the dawn of true danger – mind games
on mushroom gear and drums, selling ourselves to Muzak
tailored governments…accepting foreign gods
and leaders…nickels on the motordrome…
slob beauty – bumblebee bubble
sun-energized workbench, ribs and powder
young clapping night

Our houses become a prison…god rope girl, floating
fork, the prize and questioned direction – desert out
on gaudy trains, fantastic nipples, frosty vitamins
of youth – alive orbital thing – solid fence airplane
in safe gyrations, American symbol – asteroids mixed
with books, funk prophet wad
obsolete minutes lost in heartbeat, exploring your
ocean… yeah, I could… kiss… you

Our houses become a prison…happening arms
blow jobs – examine recent years, your tingling shirt lifts
illusion, practical, then alone
possible spare parts
mildly protesting own mouths
grounded against the building
gravity slaves
it’s usually Earth, man…
land your machine

OUTSKIRTAL CHILD

Life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child

PROFESSION AND THE OCEAN

We had rum and pretty wishes
on island-ideas
of fault, restoration
and time… but you,
my constant surfing angel
slipping on dust, aquariums crashing
into the morning
you saw the details of sky
spoke of sex
Indian massacres
pirate’s fuel
reefs and shark skin… fishes
echoed your grin… then there was
yourself… lost in expedition
with balanced western minds
circling brave for identity
diving in death
of ancient stars, mermaid
horses, drinking cold
salt-water, fading with
a dying nebula – we existed
a thousand tongues and roofs
below… passer-byes to wreck
coast… a year or two ago
what’s the color of town now,
my cordial boat still sailing?

THE SCALPEL

What killed me
was not enough
the holy, clear visioned edge
of a scalpel
lover of god
consuming dreams

Fire or dew
the comfort of my tomb
is a long road
to habit
that grew incredibly young
and tired of thought

Now quiet even sighs
run the dark bright
remembering  lament

My youth has loved the wind
fire unburning

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

ZEPPELIN BLOSSOM SKY

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

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

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

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

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

LIEBLING

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

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

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

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

GYPSY BOY BLUE

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

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

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

DERELICT DWELLERS

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

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

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

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

THE ARK

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

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

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

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

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

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

BRECHT’S PROUD OF SIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

UNTRUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWICE BORN GIPSY
(for Roky Erickson)

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

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

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

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

"Unrepeated Blues"

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

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

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

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

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