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Showing posts from March, 2008

Coming to America!!!!

Looks like it is back to America in May or June. It has been over five years since I have seen my family (mum dad and three brothers and three sisters). Arranging tickets. Salt lake City, Utah and living with my folks for the summer in a place called Spanish Fork (Utah). Earn some money doing some marketing or pr or editing or whatever

then off to London in September

want to stay in Europe

maybe change my passport from British to Irish

not an easy transition . . . hard to leave Poland in some ways . . . but gonna get back on my feet again someway somehow . . . still kicking


Spanish Fork. . . hm . . . nice strange sounding place . . .

or was it American Fork??????

expanded friday poem

The Secret of Why We First Took to Our Feet

the brain weaves a strange kind of music and our bodies
seem unable to forget
the memory of what it feels like
to be properly seen
all I have said is truly a conversation
with light as a shadow puppet
among the living
we can find breathing but we can’t find air
that defective space under which
all our selves co-mingle
springtime is a time
of limited air
and many contagions
beauty is outlawed
or injected as a drug
and all our never agains
make breathing hard
it’s in the air between
you and me baby
a special way
of fucking your self
you’ve come to understand
the mask as an image
the image as a house of cards
a collapsible organ
in the centre of the chest
--------------------------------------------------------
we meet eyes, with the backside of a spoon
we meet eyes, and others, with the backside
of a spoon, we meet eyes, and only, to give it a chance
with our eyes and the dust and the backside of a spoon
and the dust still tastes like dust
and my mother is no longer …

friday poem

The Secret of Why We First Took to Our Feet

the brain weaves a strange kind of music and our bodies
seem unable to forget
the memory of what it feels like
to be properly whole
all I have said is truly a conversation
with light as a shadow puppet
among the living
we can find breathing but we can’t find air
that defective space under which
all our selves co-mingle
springtime is a time
of limited air
and many contagions
beauty is outlawed
or injected as a drug
and all our never again
makes breathing hard
it’s in the air between
you and me baby
a special way
of fucking your self
you’ve come to understand
the mask as an image
the image as a house of cards
a collapsible organ
in the centre of the chest

pleasantries

it is pleasant to breathe after strangulation

it is pleasant to clink a wishbottle against yr yellowing teeth

it is pleasant to tie boredom to the bed and whip the shit out of it

it is pleasant to walk on cold ground with defective spaces in yr mind

it is pleasant to dance in the shark moonlight with a rat and two Polish sausages

it is pleasant to shit sticks and wipe snot from your wordtrap

it is pleasant to count the percentage of satisfactory intercourses

it is pleasant to cough up new wax, boogers, and phlegm

new version of shame (saturday)

Kultura

It’s a milkshake dream. Chocolate chunks in a pool of milk. What will prevail upon the tongue when human time is disappearing from the universe? And so the large self is proud of no-nation. They are all little shits. I’m a chain. A chain around grotesque nipples. I myself did love, did leave a trivial self. A defaced coin in the pocket of a tramp.

when I was born
when I was born
my face was bruised
was bruised
with commands

what is forbidden is broken, a token
self resorted, a restored elf
in hiding, in hiding a forbidden self
is resorted, I live because I love
and in loving stay to bleed.

When the self is trampled, which is not the same as dead, there is a dance beneath the world tree. Lock arms and swing, grasp and let go. Shame is the beginning of wisdom. Shame is the body. Shame is the face sinking back into the face. And so dance, and in so doing, more than dance. And love. And. And live in an unknown country.

better get out
before
it’s too late
better open
the door
better bake a new l…

friday revision of 'Shame"

Shame

Ladies and gentlemen, better wake up and hijack these images. Don’t wake up too old for experience. You’re beginning to believe in the past detached from the body. I have found ergo I am dead. A damned birth needs continual shock. An exaggeration of subtle truths. Here beneath the house of language a bat beats its wings in the shadows. Gifts of gods in exodus. Written though. A skeleton soaking in lamb’s wool.

A benign herd of words supports a backward relief system. A delicious meal on the shells of the dead. Daylight reveals more of the shrine. Only cold mud can cure the leech-suck. This is a musical theatre. Get aroused by the gaps in your ego. Gestures of broken heads. Hell is visible in the scene speak. Drunk on evasion the fish are swimming in the bucket. Be weary of elegance.

Drilled-in, and shaken. Are you listening? Drilled into the skull. Can you hear the operations? Skip the opera these lines pull blood to the retina. You are banished to the boonies. We are a metaph…

one of my favourite classes

Saturday morning Pre-CAE class. Great students.

Wednesday poem (from my notebook no edits)

Shame

I am full
of shame. All my work
is a forgery.

I don’t think
I’ve said
one important thing
in my entire life

I’m back in a body
crumbling
within the prism
of white supremacy.

Purity is for dummies.

*******************************************************************************************
Ladies and gentlemen, better wake up and hijak these images. Don’t wake up too old for experience. You’re beginning to believe in the past detached from the body. I have found ergo I am dead. It is miraculous here Bush with a tail that sweeps the globe. Dollar based Euro based hallucination. Our damned birth is a form of continual shock. You’re not told what you can’t know and mental exercises are an exaggeration of suble truths. Here beneath the house of language a bat beats its wings in the shadows and a living drone investigates. It’s a gray day you can’t refuse: gifts of gods themselves in exodus. What’s left is a continual deforestation. Written though. A skeleton soaking in lambswool. Under the…