środa, 15 maja 2024
Shut Up Silence
Deaf Critic
I'll go to Wal-Mart
get "Songs from a Room" (remastered), "Essential Leonard Cohen"
and a Panasonic Arc IV Wireless Men's Wet/Dry Shaver
in this way, I'll be putting across a social message
I'll save you some time
and I'll play deaf critic again
not cutting myself, like before, to rusty little
razorblade pieces
środa, 27 grudnia 2023
No dawn for years
this whole patronage of saints
I've followed
tiresome
gruesome
& weary
left nothing for me at
journey's
brickwalled
end
'cept grey as a dirtbag
Sheraton
towel
thrown onto her body
for good
taste
measure
felt like one of those tired
handicapped
heroes
who made so much efforts
unnoticed
who'll pass unnoticed
leave nothing behind
& fade out
& never get paid
the rain's been so long so stripped now:
shed it's skin faintly
to turn out a snake
consumin' its own
stainless steel
tail
while pokin' at men
damn
rusted
below
& so I'm so hopelessly stuck here
at last
w/ other writers chainsmokers
the telephone hooker's
Chinese whispers
& chess
& vodka
& sketchbooks
w/ views at the blank
walls of city
only
them hospitals, markets, morgues & prisons
your daily saccharine
dose
there's no dawn
for years
no faint heart companion
no one or nothing
to freely
hold on to:
it all takes too much sacrifice:
in the end
it's really not worth it
“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
Transfigured Sailor
show me, great sailor
a womb of dismay
unconquerable African dusks
w/ which maddening tyrants
play, chaos drags them, lords
of bagpipe orbits; midnight masters
grading flame, ashes of every
forest
breathless zeal to give what’s never renewed
back to the cloud fleet: soarings, circlings
native rhyme bulks
from eternity springs ancient sting w/ flesh
peoples, grace, Dante's rapture
kind crime of mourning
are you still heralding the fire
now that sun's been betrayed
moon quartered, last quiet carcass,
once the fruits I could smell through me
in ecstatic prayer
brave Spanish master, show me
flocks of mind, your arrogant
blinding religion, can you soar on such
throne? hell’s cataract you climbed
spilling legislatures
pendant minds? inspiring lightnings?
today’s transfigured ruins
African blooddrums
African blooddrums rattle scattle shuttle
palpitate & flatter
evil kasongos
timber poststamps cover
Zair's deepest meanders
protectory landslides
precious goldmines on fire
Salomon's temples
adventurer tramps
shotgun carryin' bewildered horsemen
last summer's episode's
soundtrack
still some blank points at maps
still some cannibal
B-class orgies
still some room for one more
European trash
bored man
entering the round house of women
at solstices only
collecting the myth
of the tribes
tiptonguely
forming primetime confusion arrows
methodically listing
her roses and princesses
connotations
to get to the gold & diamond
swamped w/ prehistory
reading Congo francais 10c
then musical chairs & Mercedes Benz feeria
pax over troubled
palm oil convoy
enthusiast
haunted still
by medicineman's
death magic
wtorek, 26 grudnia 2023
Ode to the urban wind
Free-form jazz floating around my head
ships in their harbors, sailless
the wind returns my favors
masts burning mad
I'm one of those crawling fools
living against my senses
staggering down same drunken streets
wishing someone could see
wishing there could be an ear
the wind returns my glances
some distant drum
some faraway talk
some cardboard prophet
reads from his bible
my ears deceived all the time
my eyes ripped off of their gift
sailless ships come dancing
on thin corridors of air
the streets move back in time
to 1971
walking with sun in my shoes
stars in my pockets
angel dust in my hair
putting some found art, for later,
in my red straw hat
putting the hat away
having a slow midday beer
nameless inviting cafes
free-form jazz still floating
now taking some shape:
glowing
ancient
ridiculous...
I've heard it all before
I've seen it all before
former flow of events
former flow of words
a tattooed woman comes closer
taking my red hat away
putting on my blue glasses
searching the suit
she finds
"Sailless ships, part one"
guess she's the angel
guess that's the ode
ode to the urban wind
Wish I was in LA
wish I was in LA
inhaling a different death
quicker & irrelevant
bored & tempted to run...
here only standstill helps
standstill only
makes it
work...
will catch the nearest plane
& move towards a brighter death...
not the one on cockroach bed
pesticide meadow
thin cold water
meth
but the one where moths are free
to feast on my eyes
& suck out my Pollack
brainstain
the one where pope won't come to visit
and June will last forever...
wish I was in LA
with a tapestry of dormant will
boogaloo
flower
inhaling a different gift
been wearing this death for too long
a brighter one might help...
there, at LA's suburbs
a strawberry lady's waiting
w/ her black/pink poodle
puddle
with a different kind of zoo
how I wish I was in LA
the one in the back of my brain
Oberbaumbrücke
Success
I follow the golden stairs
Beat
Within the temple
Fear
Love on wings of gloom
Moan
All was these am I
Gleam
Nightfall lamp returns
Wild
Burdened cold twilight
Sick
Thru the world on hands and eyes
Touch
Stumbling archangels weep
Love
Roaming stranger silence
Tears
Marble full moon pyres
Walls
One face and the sky
Lips
Berlin, second class
Here’s peace
I rarely leave this place
środa, 20 grudnia 2023
“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?
koshalin shanty {notebooks by the sea}
“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
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.
Love is a fungus
I came across this ancient graffiti
at the vegetable shop's wall
in fluorescent paint
there stood
a statement of attention
a statement to be reckoned
with:
"love is a fungus
and the street's where it grows..."
it suggested a whole epic
after...
there were all these green things
present
and they sure taste like your bodily
odors
and love is a fungus,
yes sir
indeed...
it reminds me of how are you dead...
it reminds me the juice
never spilled
love is a parking meter, too
and love is the cigarette
machine
it is also the crossroads where we first met
and the kiosk where we
swung
apart
and the Boogie St. dawn
which opens all nite
then I came across this graffiti artist
I somehow knew that's the man...
could tell by his hand
and serious fish eyes
I asked him:
"are you a goldfish, man, like me?"
he laughed
and said
"so that's how they meet..."
and whispered
"all love is a fungus"
and there's always an epic
after
cause the first line is always
the best
one
and our women are always
so
willing
Concentration Sister
Always free, I believed you from the start
steadily – though I didn’t know you – from top to bottom,
sure to deliver, you floated
above islands of the atom age,
railroads of the hobo escapades
trips in time to before the Industrial
Revolution, thanks to post-industrial machines
ocean liners to America, honeymoons in Cuba
but that was later on, first you came weird
on dawn’s doors, yearning simplicity, minimal animal
crashing screen oceans, nomad tents at sunrise
repeating mossy primeval tales, giving me reasons to be human,
with bare sun drifting above you,
doors crashed, & in time, you turned to nurse a bigger kill,
the ocean repeated your lies, dates became transparent,
eventually, you ran out of dates, became a learner,
first aid to averted hands fixing broken paper, as if
paper of life could be broken, inch by inch, during
fearless monsoons, monstrous evidence
they found in my pockets, sketches for songs & stage plays
& anti-regime poems,
trapped us both outside the diverted highway, set it slightly loose,
tight behind the steel fence, so we could observe our death
trapped in officer’s fist
while waiters called for lunch
light made nonsense now, no attention was paid
to your thought, so sick allegoric rats sold your craft & turned to
eat peculiar materials, armed, stuffed generals, intersections & sections
of our fathers’ codex, now tattooed on your forearm,
plain ink numbers you’ll always keep
I’m resting in your hands, accepting the fault,
awaiting the flaws to kick in, we have means & treatments,
say those outside, we’ll get you out of the camp,
rest now in her hands, your troubles this Mary shall soothe,
she’ll fit in your pocket, she shines in the dark, Americans made her,
they also invented salvation, now jump or fly, move this thinned out body
exercise the complex law of the few, saved, beaten down,
but complete – you weren’t given degrees for nothing – now troops
are landing, it won’t take long, they know we are the last ones –
let the carnal play begin, I couldn’t care less for my body
now that my moonshine jazz & poems
should carry you forever, past this pulp of tortured flesh
you’ll leave now behind with others, unforgotten concentration sister
poniedziałek, 4 grudnia 2023
Bungalow no 3
glued my eyes up to the mighty sky dynamo
containing
outdoor beauty and cans of leisure
being one
like fish on rice and beans and orchids
ornaments from the old man
of the mountain's
puff-machine...
there & here we slither
now & zen
not meant for life and/or death
rather immortal frequencies
of los voladores
repeatance and repeatance and repeatence
in deep chairs
sweet-talk peaches
church choirs
shit-talk hobos
wasted gurus
of unmade religions
jumping up at every train's whistle
looking for diamonds
in their noses
and rubies
in other cavities
hoping the train's thrust will end all things
now...
wipe out giant piles
of cowboy boots
and violet lipsticks
like cells
of a bigger apparatus
there is the whole globe here
hole globe here...
& the room
divided precisely into four mighty pieces
reminds them of the cross
which is all things simple
& universe translucent...
over Bungalow no 3
the sky is never empty:
stars are all spaces
times
City centre howl
sway through the city centre
sway through dozens of downtown women
keen on uptown dealers
& middletown sailors
decked safely at the ocean liner's pretentious
steer
like a belt
or a giant beard
you be the judge
you be the prince
of the marked cards
smug harbors
smog cutters
rag havens
scum investitures...
up against the wall
up against this side of the gun
up against the marvel of
oblivion
& the steep amazements of her fury
shit talkers
need a single bullet
a single dollar to shut their mouth
and begin to pray...
emerge out of the car horn fog
swallowin' the shallowin' sound of music
some cheap swing matters
hidden in the big bass drum
safely pinched inside the
banjo
young enough Sinatra imitators
dead cunts on prison bars in Cuba
swollen to incredible sizes
like raw dead rats
consumed as chicken
wings
sway right through the city centre
to find all paths meet
at the very same spot
to find that they all lead straight into death
straight into nothingness
apathy
kids
drinkin' their beers and whisky and vodka
and who-knows-what that they can afford
and I wish I were that rich
shit talkers
need a single bullet
a single dollar to shut their mouth
and begin to pray...
and I'll burn all the fuckin' smug harbors
at any given
chance
watch bombs explode in the rag havens'
hearts
watch poison gas overflow
the sick smog cutters' veins
& kind institutes of art
collapse...
be a hopeless guerilla in the concrete wall's shadow
ready for
execution
ignoring the falling down
new
architecture
Accidentally last
my very best poem will be the last one
the one written in invisible ink
stuck between a row of dusty
Kadarka
bottles
& withered sunflowers
the one on some ragged
yellowed piece of paper
or the one written in wax
on Basquiat's art
facsimile
or w/ chalk
on my favorite sidewalk
for someone who likes to play
hop-scotch
the one that will only express
my breath's
vivid
holiness
the one accidentally found
by the new house's owners
who'll never know
a poet lived here
before...
the one that went
to the dustbin...
a poem to summarize
my anonymous
presence:
the disenchanted
final
doorslam
the 2 A.M. coughing
Cohen's old songs
& your reddening
curls
a poem scratched on asylum's
ceilings
w/ petrified
matchsticks:
a poem a lifetime long
the poem the straight jacket
hides...
the poem w/ one word only:
"holy, holy, holy..."
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
Codename Atlantis
Flying saucers by chance
in the pastel chalice
of youth
drink while you may
says Doctor Inertia
alien commanders are waiting
to tentacle your world
pyramid builders to some
planet destroyers to others
they sharpen their sci-fi claws
while down here you know
they've none
but friendly wavelengths of time
you try collect them
saucers are landing
they detected Atlantis
below megatons of polar snow
triple sunrise approaching rainbows
falling on earthly heads
if this ain't privilege of birth
at a perfect time
I'm not sure what else could be
flashes of new faces
eruptions of stranger kisses
no more blocks of men
pure meadows of space instead
eternal holidays
going someplace else
by chance with Solar Angels
Birdgirl - girlbird
palm tree coma Atlantis
sing exotic tunes
night bliss market
maps of tropical lands
something majestic, mythical
looms its ship on the horizon
eternal jungle, pure nostalgia
moist fragrance, echo mermaids
huts of distant light crawling
song smoke swifts
drums lift the night lid
eyes of drummers sparkle -
lonely beads
of day, how many words
she says Hello, pale German
chick of the Autobahn
poems a mass
we tried to caress the island
she only shook
volcanoes and craters, shrugging
ship lands at dawn
tribes enter forest
exotica newcomers
brave
in the phase of their conquest
leave nights to burn
the setting suns of life