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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Płonie" | Nowy wiersz, 13.01.2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Relikt" | Nowy wiersz, 4.12.2024.

Kobiety grają w ping-ponga, zmieniają
stroje jak na
wybiegu
a heros nocy wyszedł z 
papierosów

przeczesuje rzednące włosy
czyta książkę telefoniczną, taki sam relikt
jak on

w tych realiach jest zbędny, w tej ulicy
kryje się pustka niedzielnych
obiadów

na których wszyscy karnie kompotem
popijają mielone z
mizerią

nasz heros też je mięso, jednak nie ma
rodziny, w związku z czym wysklepia
się w kościół

jako budynek całkiem ciekawy, jako wspólnota
taki sam relikt jak
on

może dlatego znajduje pocieszenie
w Biblii otwartej na Apokalipsie

przynajmniej całe to gówno się skończy, tak jak
ja o jedną butelką
za dużo.

5 Surreal Poems, 2024/11/26.

***

try compromise with the dealer of time - cliche
captures of a camera
joint perspectives of the city
where is the youth of this vault
where is the vault
in this yawn
and yeah, have you tried religion?
there are endless possibilities of Christ
only he didn't exist
when Earth rotated its first turn
and the sun was the boiler of some pre-white demon
circling alcoholic pastures
perhaps you should quit verse
as the dawn rises into yawns of the girl in your chair
she used to fly for Saudia
you used to roam the endless moor of the moon
but stories of youth are done
the vault is empty
and her yawn is nowhere to be found
in the climax of an
anthill

***

hey, I still find some good stuff on vinyl
I search for stuff your regular customer
wouldn't touch - receive the gift
from an alternate Alpenreality
where zithers blow with the flowers of the mountains
and old men tanz der Polka
Polka is also a Polish girl, quite plainly
I search for her where your regular lover
wouldn't go - receive the gift
from an alternate Alpenreality
where she wears a wooly sweater in yellow, reads only
German poets, and sleeps with the sheep and cows
thinking to myself
she must be Goloka
there's nothing to sell, nothing to trade, and
nothing to lose
where the final highest planet calls
in the form of a Polka, in the old men's eyes
in barbarian leaps of lotus
this must be it
this is the door
now cross it eternally through dawn
and bleib alien with Roky

***

the last cigarette - the last sip of wine
the first kiss from your drooling pillow
the last to remain
the first in the quietude of art
there, splash the canvas with twilight, try something
nobody can copy
copy something
nobody can have
steal from Picasso, he was never an asshole
there's an endless watercolor waiting
for your lady's skirt
dip sun in moon
make sunlight your crayon
be a kid
kid no-one
no-one can measure your
spirit

***

is there a way to pose with death, but act cool
when chess is not the option,
where lights are omnipresent
where the viaduct ends with rusted trains
scattered like birds over the ocean
and the viaduct over the ocean
acts cool when approaching
what we consider death, so is there a way to pose
with the angels, but act cool
when symmetry is only Blake's invention,
where high rise is your only friend
grey fades blank into
mirrors of passing trucks
carrying milk to the Soviet Union
is there music in the cabin
is there void
after void
after word
and whose word was first
was it the blind bluesman's howl, or was it the lemon squeezing lady
of the full blown latin highway
nowhere near USSR
nowhere near Europe.

***

pawns send love
pawn cocktails and muzak
heart of the lemming
sing of something old - bathe in the reverb of your room
natural stink of the folklore
working class zero
there seems to be a road
there seems to be some wine left in the cellar
after the concert where tall guys spread LSD among the crowds
pawns send care
in whispers of the mourning
it used to be sunny
but now it's drench and stink, and strumming madman
high on the promise of a record deal
we'd do anything for acceptance
hey, don't frown
there are people who send love regardless
try them and boil the rest with the muzak

___________________________________________________________________________________

Words by A.J. Kaufmann, 2024.
Photo by Hugo Marcel, 2024.

"Nieważni" | Nowy wiersz, 26.11.2024.

Zastanawiałeś się kiedyś nad duszą?
Czy może zabić ją
bomba atomowa?

Czy wojna jest jedynym prawem w tych
rejonach świata?
A przekupstwo monetą?

Jedzenie po terminie spada z przecenionych półek
wprost w karmazynową gębę
kapitalizmu

Nie zjedzą go potrzebujący
zostanie przerobione na mielonkę
której komunizm nie potrafił dostarczyć

Sprzeda się ją ponownie na kebabowym targowisku, a
gdyby Hitler zobaczył teraz Berlin
strzeliłby sobie w łeb ponownie

Pierwiastek odejścia - kaftan dla teatru

pasy dla filozofa
kula dla poety

Jesteśmy niepotrzebni
będą starali się nas wyciąć
jesteśmy niewygodni
będą starali się nas uciszyć

Nieważne w jakim systemie
zawsze zabija się
Buddę.

Nieważne, kto chce być malarzem
zawsze zostanie
dyktatorem.

"Wiener Straße" | Nowy wiersz, 13.11.2024.

Pizzeria przy Wiener Straße, środek pięknej
jesieni, jak środek
literacki

pejoratywne określenie miłości jako czegoś
nieokreślonego, jak coś
niezbadanego jeszcze
przez chirurga

mózg płonie, Włoch podaje placek
z podwójnym Jalapeño

dzwonię do swojej -ex, -ex moich marzeń, który
to telefon przypomina mi podłość moich
marzeń, jak podłość
najtańszego
piwa

tutaj jednak serwują wyborne, pizza też nie za
droga, droga nieprzebyta, stąd, on niej, do
berlińskiej wieczności
jak śpiewał Cave w jakimś czarno-białym
filmie

tu jednak nie ma aniołów - jest Włoch,
jego placek, i piwo
zaraz będę ucztował - stać mnie teraz na to - choć jeszcze
miesiąc temu głodowałem na studenckich
przecenach

mam 23 lata - myślę, skąd znajdę siłę, na kolejne
23 - to było
wtedy, a teraz
mam 39, i w sumie pisząc te słowa niewiele żałuję, no, może
tylko tego
że placek nie był
dość

ostry.

"Echnaton" | Nowy wiersz, 11.11.2024.

Wynaleziono piwo z bananów
żeby trzymać się w ryzach
lecz ono przepiło słońce

Zbudowano piramidy z piaskowca
na żyznym brzegu
lecz piaskowiec wrócił do piasku

Nim to się jednak stało, ktoś
przewartościował bogów
i ogłosił się dzieckiem Słońca

Najgorętsza z planet
obracała się pod nim
jak żarówka w krzywym zwierciadle

Słoneczna lampa na czole, przytrzymywana
przez dwie małpy i bęben
trawiła soki faraonów

Pora uśmiercić kolejnego
westchnęło dziecko Słońca
i sru, uderzyło głową w gong poranka

Ktoś podał Afgański towar
a w moim mieszkaniu skończyła się woda

Wynaleziono piwo z recyklingu
żeby trzymać mnie w ryzach
jednak znów czytam książki o Egipcie
i wcale nie marzę o
śmierci.

"Dylanowskie Wino" | Nowy wiersz, 28.10.2024.

Cienka żółta linia
między głupotą a marazmem
została przekroczona
przez szaleńca
który pomylił ją z żółtym chodnikiem
i tanecznym krokiem
zagrał Dylana

łatwo grać Dylana, pomyślałem
trudniej nim być
ale po co?
można być sobą tak jak on nigdy nie był
i szukać chodników
po ciemnej stronie tęczy

zebraliśmy się tutaj aby...

Lawrence Ferlinghetti wiecznie żywy
ktoś beka w City Lights
i potyka się o kabel

dwóch gitarzystów wcześniej
mieliśmy tu niezłą jatkę

jeden szukał kogoś na piano, drugi na forte
obaj poszukiwani byli kobietami
ale tylko w nocy
za dnia zamieniali się w wilki
i tańczyli z innymi poetami

wczoraj postanowiliśmy cię zwolnić...

wszelkie obowiązki odeszły
na kulawy koślawy plan
dalszy rozwój sytuacji
wklepał mi tylko wąsy w twarz

przecież nie ma sensu być poetą
w świecie biznesmenów
spijających dylanowskie wino.

"Wyniesienie Giganta" (Nowy wiersz, 18.10.2024).

Jego ciało w majonezie wysp
dusza sam wie gdzie

dziecko - ziarnko piasku
starzec - wieczność
czy też było to odwrotnie?
a kogo to obchodzi?

ciułacz w kąpieli łapie drugie pranie
wzywa pokojówkę
dziś szybki numer
z paragonem za płaszcz

kolega powiedział, że woli być nikim
dość ma walki z administracją
czym jest administracja?
mlekiem? kawą? strzelcem?
kto pilnuje ofert?

dlaczego wczorajszy strzelec
wzywa pokojówkę
dziś szybki numer
z estetyką Jezusa pod krzyżem
Maria na nim
z majonezem

niczym prosty atrament nieba
lub dwadzieścia dawek kwasu

o mój boże, znów te same buty!
dzieci bawią się po prostu
w wyniesienie giganta.

10 Favorite Songs as selected by A.J. Kaufmann sometime in 2015, after the release of "Stoned Gypsy Wanderer".

Bulat Okudzhava - Pesenka Ob Arbate

I could swear I still got flashes from a period I was too young to remember, when I was about 2-3y/o and my mother was spinning her Bulat Okudzhava LPs on an old Polish turntable. Maybe I remember this right, as I still got those records. „Pesenka Ob Arbate” tells the tale of Arbat, which is a street in Moscow, where artists and academics used to live. Perhaps this song's subconscious influence on a Polish child shaped my entire viewpoint on life and music, the melancholy and simplicity, the truth and the humility I pursue. In the songs I write and record I go for a raw, primitive feeling, close to art brut and poetry, which is exactly what you can hear in Bulat's recordings, and this one, his most famous song perhaps, is also one of the most haunting. The human story, human voice, reality and the instrument is what really matters here, the small orchestra of hope.

Woody Guthrie – Struggle Blues

When I got interested in American folk music, I discovered Bob Dylan first. And Woody Guthrie thanks to Dylan's debut album. The first Woody Guthrie LP I bought was „Struggle”. When I dropped the needle on the record and heard this tune first I was immediately transported to America in the 1940s, the beautiful harmonica, the rhythm, and freedom of country roads and endless skies, small train stations, but also the struggle of working men, blood and the history – including the story I've read in the booklet, and everything about America then was captured forever on a piece of vinyl without singing a single word. And this was merely an introduction to the album. Imagine my amazement and growing respect for Mr. Guthrie when I got to know more of his music. No wonder not only Dylan, but also Donovan tried their best to copy him when they were starting their careers.

Hank Williams – Alone and Forsaken

Another true, honest song, with no gimmicks. I've got a sentiment for it mostly because, for me, it is the sonic equivalent of life in a Polish high-rise block, where I was raised, and a window into harsh reality I later learned from my own life, mistakes and relationships. Hank Williams doesn't have to do anything here, he simply has to be himself in front of a microphone with his guitar, and that's it. Despair, desperation, disappointment – it's all here. Nothing distracting the mood, the story Hank tells us, no other instruments, no orchestras, yet the tune tells more with one word than another orchestrated song about breaking up. If anybody would ask me to distill country music, it would all come down to this name: Hank Williams. The songs, the lifestyle, the story, it's all magical, but if you look closer, it's simply life, and nothing more. And life can indeed be magical in the right hands. Hank made his life a journey worth living for, and in that he taught me a lesson.

The Velvet Underground – European Son

I'm pretty sure this track is legendary to many sound artists/musicians, as is the album from which it's taken. For me, it's the first rock'n'roll I've consciously heard, and a perfect combination of cheeky, punk lyrics, art gallery sound, and maltreated decadent lead guitar that wouldn't sound out of place on a forward-thinking jazz album, or a no-wave album from the 80s. And to think the Velvets cut the Norman Dolph version of this back in 1966, makes me wonder about endless possibilities of sung or written words and electric guitars we have now, in the 21st century, thanks to people like Lou Reed. I was listening to this song and album while studying Polish philology, and writing my first lyrics which weren't love songs. „European Son” changed my life and approach to art, for better or worse, but I'm thankful it did. I dropped out of one university and went to another.

David Bowie – Moonage Daydream

Another classic. I first came upon Mr. Bowie's music when I started studying English philology, and realized I missed something big when I've heard „Space Oddity” on the radio. Reading the Rolling Stone interview with Burroughs and Bowie, knowing Burroughs' prose before, made me think very highly of Mr. Bowie. The instrumental section always reminds me of „Cabaret”, and the whole movie passes by before my eyes like an abstract painting, along with every note. The chorus has an enormously beautiful melody, and the lyrics are killer. Mr. Ronson's solo is particularly emotional and very strong, not to mention perfectly executed. Perfect arrangement too. Personally, I can't think of a bad Bowie song, but „Moonage Daydream” is the only one I can loop on my CD player and listen to it all day. And night. And another day. I was humming „Moonage Daydream” during my first professional photo shoot and I am a huge David Bowie fan.

Gil Scott-Heron – Lady Day and John Coltrane

I love both Lady Day and John Coltrane. And I love Gil Scott-Heron. His lyrics are genuine poetry, and this particular song is very soothing, makes you feel you're enjoying a warm sunny day, even in the middle of the coldest winter. It has a great flow, lyrics, emotional vocals delivering a delicate melody of hope and joy, and a bassline I'd love to hear on a „krautrock” record, in a different context, maybe I'm thinking Frankie Dymon Jr.? Gil indeed „washes your troubles away” with his melody, and comforts the ones living, or rather existing, beyond the „plastic people”s rat race. I first came upon his work thanks to a friend, a Protestant pastor, who recommended his debut album, and a book of his, „The Vulture”. His imagery, subject matter and delivery transcend obsolete concepts like race, nationality, or social status and reach deep into the most important subject we have – our humanity.

Hawkwind – Master of the Universe

The first track that got me hooked on space rock, and, for me, the definition of space music up to this day. My favorite version is one found on the „Space Ritual” double LP, although the studio creation from „In Search of Space” has the perfect sound and is the first one I've heard. Amazing Dave Brock riff, perfect Dave Anderson bassline, the phasing, and Nik Turner's vox - the main reason why I sometimes FX the vocals so much, and occasionally phase whole tracks. I also started playing bass inspired by this track. First listened to „Master” in Berlin, back in the winter of 2004. I was living in Zehlendorf at the time, reading lots of Joyce and modern Canadian poetry, found in my landlord's library, smoking and writing future songs and lyrics for Sauer Adler. My landlord was Mr. Johann Gottlob von Wrochem, so I had free piano concerts every morning. Of course, Hawkwind used to work with two of my favorite sci-fi/fantasy writers, Michael Moorcock and Robert Calvert.

Zager & Evans – In the Year 2525

Since I first watched Planet of the Apes in 1998 or 1999, I fell in love with early 60s/70s dystopian/sci-fi cinema, my favorite movies being Time Machine, Logan's Run, Fahrenheit 451, Soylent Green, The Omega Man... which are classics really, and lots of more obscure sci-fi flicks. And then this song comes creeping into my life. I've heard it first thanks to my then-girlfriend who used to come up with bizarre songs for me to include in live repertoire. It might be a funny folksy ditty from the perspective of 2014, but the message is powerful, if a bit naive, and the melancholy present in this recording often makes me think, seriously or lightly, of the direction and fate we are headed for as mankind. Hippie fables, really, but I always liked them too. Sonically this makes me think of a band of psychedelic mariachis conquering the limits of outer space on a flying saucer hanging from a, not really invisible, string.

Sonic Youth – She is Not Alone

With this song, I realized I don't have to make music like everybody else. I understood that your sound expresses your soul, and that you can make your own music completely on your own, and create your own scene outside of the „business”. There are many DIY home-recording artists out there, with whom you can feel, or not, a connection, or work with. After all, we are all really traveling waves on one endless tape called Earth, and we continuously record/erase our improvised parts, songs, loops, layers, add or remove tracks and cut-up the surface of our existence in a burroughsian fashion. The guitars on this track had a similar effect on me as the lead on VU's „European Son”. I am thankful for this alteration of perception, and even if I never really became a fan of Sonic Youth, this song, and the „NYC Ghosts & Flowers” album will always be close to my heart.

MC5 – Rocket Reducer No. 62 (Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa)

Rob Tyner's opening line alone is worth putting in a museum of modern art, were it not for the fact that MC5 music is way too good to end up in any museum. I remember this one from crazy, and dangerous, parties in Neukölln,Berlin, where it was often played from the original LP along the likes of Magma, Hawkwind, Bang, Blue Cheer and many other classic bands from the psychedelic era. It's funny how close a poet and folk musician can get to good rock'n'roll when it comes to his lifestyle. So yes, „Rocket Reducer” is party music for me, but the raw aesthetic and power that MC5 present here and on their LP full blast is much more than just rock'n'roll entertainment. This here is the thinking woman's/man's entertainment, a bold artistic statement and kick ass music in one mighty package, that fuels both intellectual and sexual needs of any wild rock'n'roller.