another one in progress since leaving Poland

maybe not, although, I don’t think so, my lapsed
travel zone, still winking star-studded
challenge, hear all, heralded, just grab the tab, pull off the damage

maybe not, although, the craziest guest list I ever seen, maybe not, although, travel
flesh, pushed-in chin

now scene speak: Newport
Pagnell: green green green
and old village pubs, country
food: yorkshire pudding and roast
and carrots: loved and lost
and loved all, it.




I want all these virtual kisses in person in the flesh on the flesh as soon as possible, as soon as the old village pub closes for the night and we rub chins
with all the sleeping shamans, built-up, maybe not, although, I don’t think so
looks like it might all come together

dull ache in the nose, the truth

of something is a smoking tunnel, taking for granted, of course, absence, the empty bottle
thrown into

a body of water

you realise this instant, this instance, is a key-
hole, a tunnel with a squint of light, yes taken
for granted, studied
under, the moment as we once
knew it renounces
our earthly labour
before being
impounded, pounded
out into
performance

this virgin train offers first class comfort
hot chocolate and biscuits
and acid relfux

yes: under fire, the moment
burns

and now scene speak: north London

offers
friendly bustles and ear popping tunnels
a friendly biscuit in a golden tin

wood, green, wood green, green wood, wood
migets and giants and dusted pollen, and dutied
wounds, wounds of a mistress, of a city, this
energy will eat or be
eaten, London is the world’s navel, the world’s
onion, the world’s housing
little maids
surrounded by hard light, London
wood green, north, on the line, out of
time the man on the cooling board
said be careful of the wire, said
ireland, and ireland
is in north London, in Halloway,
a stabbing here or there, I’m
always looking for you in second-hand
linguiere shops, my back, watch
it, watch what comes back
in the clearing, in the dust
of the city, in the wood, in the
green, in the hard light, in
the north, again.

if I share my consciousness everyone
will rob me, if I share this dislocation
who will centre me, if I share this
post-immigrant
flim flam flum, this shared outnumbering
this shared hard light

written quickly at Belfast City Airport

The Goose

at The Goose across from Wood Green Station
£1.50 a pint, Slovakians and Bulgerians and Polish and North
Londoners and a man in the corner climbing a ladder
of tongues

in the overheard compartments
of the mind
what has lifted
what has shifted
in the supreme footfall, in the swagger
of alternate tendencies: sparks
of the masculine dream dragon: can’t
get at them, these wordzones, muddled
tendrils grabbing my limbs

what you said what you said is a miner’s strike
on the piss man, need to get sucked
in to just juiced up: scenes are spoken
into: Charlie couldn’t hold it, that’s
bet UHR, looks like the channel switcher, switch
hitter, open blondes and open evenings with evening
jeans and evening dresses and Polish mindbombs

what did you wager? Your mammalian glands
on the lank, not primarily for safety still
need to come home to give birth, in the choked
out energy spurts of grace in mad cities, in the anti-
poetic underword scenes
accumulate on the primal verge.

I’m getting younger. Is this a double or a single? It’s not
a dull one is it? What else do you do? How do you do?
What can you wager? You should see
her last performance.

In my cartoon dreams with cartoon erection there is larvae flowing
down the moutainside of some remote thatched hut village
and a lumpy Polish giant to burn for the good of the economy,
the good of the nation, the complete abduction of senses.
Not a martyr’s dream but a mime
with the personal, the real is a mongrel shaking.

Out of waste: out of rubble: out of conversations with self
on Easyjet flights from Katowice to London to Belfast to London
I’ve lost the frontman, the stunt double, the greasy
L of the last good lube is still slithering, my pontification is asswine,
greased up my mind is swelling,
mad drills of the infinite mind how you like me now
mad cow, mad moutains and mole hills.

In the transgressions of memory a boy with a blond
mop and Jesus complex is stuck in the transmission
crackling behind the screen, behind the scenes:

all unattended
selves will be removed
by the police

selling

what does it mean to sell out? it entails something about authenticity which is a big bag of bones. but being authentic is always a question in motion. like individuality it is under suspicion. and at the very least it is fucking hard work. to be authentic requires constant questing and questioning. i have a marketing job. i wore a white shirt, blue suit, and combed my hair in a nice tame way and took out my earring. did i lose something? "clothes and fashion are superficial. it is the inside that counts." but clothes are signifiers and your signifiers can become you unless you realise it is a play. even then there is danger. wearing a suit in central london and working with the bigshots may, in time, change your personality. a personality may have some stable aspects, and many unstable or free-playing aspects based on context/environment. i want to see my pesonalities as many branches on the one tree, the one tree with a shitload of roots going everywhere and nowhere. i want to sit in the centre of the energy of the world and dig it. i want to get lost in order to lose self-consciousness. i want to light it up. get the words chattering in my head again. after three years of living in foreign countries i didn't hear much in terms of inner dictation. my writing changed. i learned a lot. now it is time to get more playful and listen to all those damn fine voices in my head again. yeah. and really soak it all in.

so no selling out. a day job for less money is better than getting sucked into the corporate world. maybe i can go into the beast later. i can play. let's play. ok better catch the tube to get the bus to get the plane to fly to belfast. back to london in 11 days.

off we go . . .

in wood green, north london today belfast tomorrow berlin . . . ???

in new room. old place. a few cool bulgarians. now my mum is in belfast. flying back to belfast tomorrow. it is crazy globe trotting. come back to london in 11 days. will eventually get settled. met cool german named sven and went to about five london irish pubs full of irish londoners here since the 60's. mostly old men. interesting. lots of polish people here in wood green. no internet in my new flat/room. my room is illegal. it is not meant to be rented. a storage space. but super cheap. for london. just a foot in the door. using super slow internet right now at a cafe. type everything at least three times. keyboard/internet problems. ten steps behind my typing. new job should be ok. small school. marketing a school is much better than marketing some shitty product . . . so in short . . . on the move . . . head still up . . . hectic as all hell . . . but i am damn determined to make a new life . . . so come on london . . . lets get it on . . .

London tomorrow

I traveled from Milton Keynes to London all last week. After one busy extremely stressful week I have a job and a place to live. I will take the train tomorrow to London. I will live with six other guys in a cheap flat share in North London (Wood Green). The new job is in marketing and administration for a language school in North London. They will train me. Still a lot of stress ahead. Gotta breathe deep. New job with lots of new things to learn. The new flat is quite messy and old and the room is very small but it is very cheap for London (£240/month) so at least it is a start. I can survive until my first paycheck. The downside is that I won't have any internet :-( I am going to try to get a pay as you go plan. Means I have to top it up a lot. £15 for 100 hours. Limited hours on the internet so will have to plan carefully.

So off I go . . . no idea what can happen . . . .

newport pagnell (U.K.)

birds everywhere. at least twelve new songs. clock ticking. slugs nestled into mud puddles. Lush, in short.

i have applied to a mad amount of jobs, it is the system, my tick, oversaturate then choose via exhaustion or luck.

just want a bit of peace, a piece, small piece, of the pie without getting sucked in, labour, free economy, marketing and pr and . . . and . . . it's ok to work in business, in that world, just so long as i have mental space, mental spaces, for my writing.

art is a re-arrangement, a reshuffling. i write to see, or i write instrumentally, and seeing requires mining and mining requires minding the gaps and the gaps contain blocked energies and . . . well . . . unblocking blocked energies can get downright messy.

I'm looking at language now, how, it creates, now how i can recreate and how now
in this world of false limits and limitless faults

how i can choose

one hour till departure

hey we go . . . one hour . . . two trains . . . plane . . .london

well, Milton Keynes for a while . . . interview for a marketing gig in North London Tuesday. If I got the job, I would be the marketing fella for an English language school in North London. The other side. Not teaching. Not sure if I can get it. Not sure of anything except . . . goodbye Poland. It's been good. It's been terrible. It's been a roller coaster. I have learned a lot. I need to be in an English speaking country for an extended period of time. Maybe grab some roots.

I met some amazing people in Poland (Ewa, Joe, Magda, Zofia, Jon, a fantastic student named Piotr, Ela etc.)

Krakow is a beautiful city. A lot of interesting things happening. I will visit Krakow again for sure!!!

Zurek is an amazing soup. Bigos is good in the winter. Polish beer was quite good.

I will miss some of my great students at Empik!!! I won't miss Katowice!!!

time for a new life . . .

next entry will be from London (or London area)

some reworkings from The Secret of Why . . .

dipping feet into dead holes:
polski pani
polski pani
zoo wee su zesh gee
oh wee ma me
pling plang ol la ba na na

the eye socket does not contain a rainbow
but the informer keeps on informing

coins on the table, flight delayed, & still trying to simplify my life
I’ve the restless disease with speedy boarding
one hold bag between all passages
literal survival mode pulls my gyspy strings
I hate to go so early into the verile light

from the secret of why we first took to our feet (rough)

cruel spring is on the way and my savage old identity is
in the making, three years of foreign lands, my action is mental,
don’t jump outta airplanes ‘cept in my mind
get natural, get funny, get off, get
your tail
in a hairspin, tis insanity hence sane

ached-up falliable nautical
hot-splotch rollerwheels &
squeels
& a dummy
tit to shut
the trap

got bucked &
got juiced
in the lands of the dead

freedom and forgetting
are twin cousins
on the back
of an elephant

certified face full of holes

fear less
than clear

can’t find my knees
on a flight to Belfast
to bury the dead
all kinds of physics at work
in the air

to trace the heat of fingers doesn’t always proceed
from body to body

there is a kind, they say, a kind
of wheel turning and a new song
on the wings

kids dropped his crayon on the airplane
my wife was x-rayed in crayons

toothcombing the mindbreaks
with a dead shoulder
thrown into the system