Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
took the 56 bus downtown
to a place once real,
or at least in imagination.
The flat windows and cold steel
that scraped against the winter sky
felt like human parking lots
hanging over the abandoned shoulders
of people running back and forth,
while the homeless sold newspapers
no one cared enough to read.
A city lived only in imaginations
by people without imaginations.
I talked to old friends along a dirty river
about nothing about a reoccurring past,
their names slowly forgotten, names whitewashed
into a tapestry of post-industrial bliss.
I followed an address to my childhood:
an empty void with escaping memories
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
Am I insane?
Blessed with trials
of unclean angels
perfected with imperfection,
mirrors of experience
reflected in a cracked iris.
The holy face that follows
comforts and watches over
with a holy smile radiating
in stark starry sleepless
pre-dawn mornings intertwined
in long walks to nowhere
from Yuma to the Middle East
with notebooks of noble philosophy
holding hard against supernova
storm clouds that sway blindly
into unknown fiery revelations.
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
Tornados form in the distance,
products of wild imaginations
on rolling highways. Wisps
of nipples barely swirling
from green clouds turning above
God´s country in opposite directions
with unspoken understanding that
the plains are there only in preparation
for gloomy sunlit Kansas desert doldrums,
and the people on this tapestry blanket
only do his bidding here.
Screaming yelling kicking
in the absolute silence of corn fields
connected by straight lines dashed arbitrarily
in the great empty vastness.
Interstates, highways, country roads
marked with letters numbers
and towns unmoved with the strings
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
The Death Of Poetry, The Death Of Me
Oh world! (blah). Poets! What have you become?
Directionless without Bréton´s authority
Obscure like early Rimbaud
museum pieces in the attic
trapped on this plane, marking revolutions
from bored jaded middle-classes.
Alone on a stage with Kevin McCameron
with no one to listen or
pass us by.
Western destruction imminent and passé.
It is only best to speak in love poems
sonnets, and prose of sweet rememberance.
The sun sears asphalt on stop-and-go traffic.
The heat smells not all different from colors
in crowds of faces too unhealthy and beaten
to see all the beautiful things just outside
their frames of mind; characters only spoken to
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
(You)
Sublime and calm,
pecking and cooing
at the unseen side of my brain.
A breathless hug pinning my body to the floor
asking me to come hard and let go this time;
sometimes it´s on the floor
sometimes it´s on the bed
sometimes it´s in a book of poetry.
I hope and dread but secretly wait
for you to tickle me with your soft syllables
to pull down my arms
and massage my lungs
until they fall on top
of my broken heart.
But
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
Is it to much to ask for something more than
dopamine and ((pulsating)) cromatics
beating and shaking
against the walls
counting time
until
your middle-aged 2 A.M. destiny...
that never seems quite as good as it could be,
and you´re left singing karaoke to a wall
once your best years have passed you by
while everyone else gets drunk
fantasizing about
the fear of yielding to other´s desires
and you´re ass.
Is it too much to ask for a little true love?
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
I am alone today,
Alone in a cobweb
with friends clamoring
from the kitchen to the porch.
Alone in the jokes bouncing off antique windows,
alone in my own smiles and laughs, and an ominous feeling
I share with no one. I am anonymous;
as a face in a dark pub
comforting itself
with feigned ignorance,
much like the night before.
Did I fall asleep? Does it matter? Do I care?
It's said:
Time heals, everything arrives at a rightful place.
I know that already, it's hell.
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
I will sit here.
Drink another beer
smoke another cigarette,
alone. And contemplate
nothing.
Meanwhile,
Drunk Punk Mike stands on his corner
with his white witch wife
talking about 1977
when
people were alive.
Larribe the hippie
drinks mint tea in the Jewish Quarter of Tangier
talking about Katherine Hepburn and The Rolling Stones.
The whore in Singapore I got drunk with
who admonished me for feeling so so sorry for myself
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
I promise I will
smash unplane mirrors,
let the stars align
like all the times before
with riddles cased in midieval stone
and shared cups of tea
as we fall into Saturn´s embrace
without ever saying a word.
The color of your eyes
is as lost as your name.
I refuse
to look.
The warmth of your arms
does not make the bedroom
feel any less cold.
Before you spoon me
just know...
I´d rather not hurt you
tommorrow.
I fell into the concrete
when you turned your head
at a harsh inward angle,
and replied
without passion.
I imploded
into a cubist painting
when I saw your hand
move toward mine,
until you became aware
and pulled it back
into your abdomen.
In that moment I died...
but not really.
I screamed!
"I love you"
"I love you"
(...)
--- cały tekst ---
