Love isn't blind,
blind are those,
who never loved.

Those poppy fields were lifeless,
but now they shine with light.
The war has made them bleeding,
the Peace has made them smile.

Each flower is a soldier,
who sacrificed his life,
who gave up his own future
to make our future count.

Each flower tells a story
of man and woman's fight,
you hear them in the glory
of petals shining bright.

Shhh, quiet, can you hear this?
The flowers -  making sound.

The unsung heroes singing
the song of joy - and life.

This town,
where the old church sings
the song of silence.
Where the houses
have a familiar light in the windows.
This town was mine, a while back -
for a while.

Then she came,
in her black dressing gown,
and said to this town "goodbye"
on my behalf.

What a *****!

I'm sitting in my room,
writing,
believing that I can change the world,
knowing that I can't,

I'm sitting here, alone,
I'm thinking of those who are suffering,
those who've lost everything,
those, who will never feel like home.

I'm sad,
feeling like crying,
wishing to save the world,
knowing well that I won't,

but something tells me
to keep on trying.

This city never sleeps.
There are two cities in one.
I can show you both,
if you want to open your eyes.

Have you ever been to Heaven?
How about Hell?
I can show you devils,
just follow me there.

They are dressed like angels,
they have pretty smiles.
If you kiss their lips,
you will never die.

I can show you angels,
with big frightening horns.
If you bow in front of them,
the world will be yours.

James Bond is cool
but I'm not sure
the armed guy should be the one
to rule,
to save a belle
from hell.

A man with a gun - it could be anyone,
not only Bond.
But guns are wrong,
and we all know, it won't
make world a better place, oh no.
Violence is not the way.

I'd like to see Prince William as James Bond,
with bunch of flowers in his hands,
instead of gun.
That would be fun.

And Duchess Kate
as real Bond's girl,
always a smile away from her man.

That would be great.

Sitting in Starbucks
drinking sweet coffee from Christmas red cap.
Not many people inside. Table for two, me and I,
music in background, quite nice,
at least I don't mind, but who does mind
anything,
when festive time has just arrived?

Enjoy your coffee, my friend,
but in the meantime, have a look outside
the window,
at rough sleepers and their hands,
open and empty.
This year
Christmas came early again.

They are holding
your pale wrists
tight.

Spotkania o pracę,
na które nie przyszedłem,
było ich trochę.

Mówiłem: Tak, tak,
przyjdę, jutro o dziewiątej,
sto procent.
I nie poszedłem. Jaka szkoda!

Byłem gotowy wieczorem,
wcześnie poszedłem spać,
by wstać świeży.
Ale nie wstałem na czas.
I nawet teraz, gdy o tym mówię,
wciąż trudno mi w to uwierzyć.

Puste było krzesło
w biurze, gdzie już na mnie czekał
manager,
ubrany w garnitur,
z papierami do wypełnienia.
Wciąż tam czekają
na podpisanie,
nie wiedząc, że nigdy nie będą przeze mnie
podpisane.

Wciąż tam siedzi,
manager, którego nigdy nie miałem przyjemności spotkać
i uścisnąć jego dłoni,
wymienić uśmiechów.

Spotkania o pracę, na które nie poszedłem,
bo były albo za wcześnie,
albo za późno.
Ominąłem mój los.
Taki widać los.

My neighbourhood
hungry pigeons,
small supermarket,
Turkish kebab shop.

People with faces
of a lonely ghosts,
dull cars, loud airplanes
bugging their own noise.

Fake beggars, cafe
full of strangers' talk,
grey skies above me,
ex-paradise lost.

My neighbourhood,
weekend market's stalls,
park, always empty,
closed down gospell hall.

I sold my intimacy
for sake of publicity,
*** sells in democracy,
Lord Dollar, please set me free!

I see now - hipocrisy
takes over things I believed.

I'm naked, they look at me,
they buy me, they make me free,
but Freedom is what I seek.

Oh, Freedom is all I need
in times of Great Slavery,
when each day's a robbery.
I'm poorer than younger me,
I'm richer than older me.

I sold my intimacy
for sake of modernity
and shameless society
without any dignity.

My body's all they can see,
my body is all they need
to make them happy and free,

but, they, in reality
unhappy are, slaved for keeps,
so am I, and I can see
mistakes I've done, idiot me,
for sake of publicity,
I worship idiocracy,
****-riding pussocracy,
like war with Intimacy.

Half-naked girls in the street
and women ****** on the screen
by dumb masculinity.
Life-saving *******,
no, *******, you can't save me.

Where is my intimacy?
I've sold it, oh stupid me,
for sake of publicity,
*** sells in democracy.

When
meat meets
meat, magic is
born.

That's
how this world
carries us on.

They ear you
but
they don't hear you.
That's the
problem, Mr Teacher.

So **** them all, let's build the wall,
call us *******, we are *******
without a choice. It's us or them,
so let's get it done, and then we can
talk about Peace and Love, and make
love with those we love, make friends
and make *** with those we know. That's why
we now should build this wall. So **** them all.
It's us or them, at the end of the day.

It's not the way, we know, we are aware
that they deserve to breath and live and work
like we deserve. But I'm afraid, we can't
do anything. Sorry to say.

He acted like Prince.
He knew that it doesn't take much
to have them on their knees,
blind.

People, when given a choice,
make always the easiest one.

Now he's dead,
they're crying for him.
I'm crying for
them.

What have we done wrong?
Why us?
We didn't vote,
we didn't rule,
we didn't lie.

We live in a stable,
not in a palace.
We don't eat caviar,
only hay and grass.

We didn't riot,
we didn't shout,
we didn't say a word,
so why they killed us?

Because we live in a stable,
and because we don't lie.
Because we didn't say a word,
that's why.

------------------------------------------------

Poem inspired by the news that *"Six police horses were injured by anti-capitalist demonstrators at last night's Million Mask March"

It's still cold outside,
so why are the birds singing
so joyfully and so loudly?

Still freezing out there,
so why are the flowers blooming?
I don’t understand.

The hope is still cursed,
so why am I writing this poem,
like it was my first?

The hand
which plucked the flower,
will wilt too.

Art hates fame
and flashing lights,
public places,
great gigs in the skies.

Art hates those
which watch her constantly,
she hides in blind eyes
and let them see.

She hates wisdom,
prophets and preachers,
she's a friend
of truth seekers.

She doesn't pay
for those who believe in her,
but give them instead
sense of existence.

He died in a sleep, yesterday morning,
unnoticed, without a warning,
quiet, like people die.

Now he doesn't need their spare change,
he doesn't need their promises
to sort this problem out
before 2025.

He doesn't need you now, London,
like you never needed him,
he won't bother you anymore,
you won't hear him again saying Please.

He doesn't need you, Westminster,
death solved his problems, not you.

He passed away in his sleep,
he now lies in a warm bed, smiling,
and angels bring him hot food.

But, he wasn't the first and the last,
there's many more out there in the cold

and every death of a homeless
is a little death of our Free World.


The poem was written after learning about the death of a homeless man in the tunnel near Westminster tube station in London.

On the tube,
on the Jub-
ilee line,
feeling fine.
Almost fine.
Out of ten - nine,
or maybe eight,
if not seven.
Tube ain't heaven
more like hell,
feeling unwell
actually,
I'd give it six
out of ten,
no, five, man,
four, or less,
three, it's a mess
fresh-airless,
crowdy, jeez,
two I'd give,
one, oh, no,
getting worse,
can't breath now,
zero out
of ten, ouch,
let me out,
let me out!

It's easy to follow
a crowd,
much harder
to follow your
heart.

It's easy
to put a mask on
and be the one that you're not.
Way harder is
to show face,
while being something against.  

Fireworks
lit up bonfire night,
but morning
sees them burnt out.

Getting thinner and thinner
and skinner and *****
and gloomier and weaker,
unhappier and paler,
depressed more and crazier
and messed, death-obsessed
and stripped to the ribs 
and scarer and thinner
and lighter and paler,
less pretty, enslaved and
less happy, not happy,
Auschwitz-like, so horrid
self-killing, deploring,
and faker, unhappier
and skinner and broken
and scarer and scarer
and thinner and thinner
and thinner and thinner
and ghostler,
and death-like,
fibre-glassed,
dead thin,
dead,
inside and out.

Smile to yourself,
don't smile to others,
apart from children,
smile to them,
for they will appreciate it
and understand.
But don't smile to their mothers and fathers.
They will think you are weird.

Don't smile to strangers,
they will ignore you,
or will take it as your weakness
and will dare to approach you
and ask for money or a cigarette.

Smile to yourself,
to the face in the mirror,
you will feel safe,
you will feel like a winner!

Everyone,
everything
looks suspicious
to me.

Francis is calling from Nigeria. Hi Francis.
Welcome to the show, thanks for getting in touch.
I've never been to Nigeria, but I've heard that
it's a beautiful country.
Yes, but...
Have you got
a safari in Nigeria?
Yes but a bit different...
That's cool! I'd love to see that! Francis, what are your
plans for tonight?
We are going to...
Let me guess -
to the party. That's awesome! Have a good time,
enjoy! You are young and free!
No we are going to
the local village, to bury bodies of few men,
they were killed...
Killed? Oh my God that's terrible,
tell us more! Were they killed by wild animals?
No, by...
Hello? Francis? Are you still there?
We've lost our listener, unfortunately. What a shame.

Sperms, washed up by the tide, dies on the Australian coast.
Their heavy bodies hardly breath.
People try to help, water them,
waiting for the turning tide which could save the sperms.
But it comes too late.

The ocean takes sperms, already dead,
and people come back home, sad.

Today, they will eat dinner in silence,
but by tomorrow they'll forget,
and will happily surf the waves.

I think about God,
and more I think about Him,
I know him less.

The quietness of this morning:
I am happy - at last.
They wonder if Heaven exists,
I have the proof that it does.

Undisturbed by the neighbours,
their children and their cars.
Silent, angel-like halo
of the sky-growing sun.

Maybe I'm only dreaming,
maybe I'm still in the sleep
and  I'll wake up to screaming
of angry man in the street.

So let me enjoy this moment,
even if it's just a dream.
Today I'm not going to church,
the church has just come to me.

Diamonds, gas, and rope,
smallest glimpse of hope,
happiness and peace,
drugs and happy pills,
wild *** and fast cars,
Pepsi, chocolate bars,
whisky, *****, beer,
football on TV.

Want a paradise?
Well, you know the price.


Schools and therapists,
dentists, psychiatrists,
swimming pools and saunas,
It's all about "How much?".

Tanks, bombs, hospitals,
blood, guns, funerals,
Status, truth, and lies
"all exclusive" price.

Pay for stupid wars,
for the human corpse.
Pay for rent and food.
pay for "I feel good!"
pay for sleepless nights,
for your born-to-die.

Because nothing is for free,
even if it seems to be.

You call me unhappy, but I'm happier than you,
my wallet is thicker than yours, therefore my smile
is wider.
I don't mind selling my body, we all are ****** in a way,
it just depends on what we do and how long it takes.
I couldn't be happier. No, it doesn't sound wrong.
Which God tells you that? Who taught you to judge?
And why you listen to someone else,
why you don't listen to yourself?

Are you a saint amongst the sinners? No,
You are a sinner, and I am a *****. And therefore
you are a ***** too. We are on the same boat,
going to an unknown land, where no one knows what awaits
and who will score the prize and who not.
The boat is sinking, God has forgotten about us all.
And no one knows how far is the shore.

Soon you'll come to me and ask for a job.

People who shout deserve no sympathy,
shouting is stupid, callous, rude, and cheap.
Nothing good can come out of it, but bad,
it made those shouted ones scared, frightened, stressed.
Honestly, shouting's the worst thing, I guess.

Those husbands yelling on their caring wives,
they don't deserve to be loved, should be banned
from getting married, making women cry.
Or fathers shouting on their kids. Oh no,
they don't deserve to see them, oh they don't!

Not only them, but anyone with voice
raised to the level of barbaric noise,
should have their shouty mouths zipped, forcefully,
if they don't want to calm down, quiet be.
It is a matter of human dignity.

People who shout should go to prison, yes,
punished for making other's lives a mess.
Look at dictators, they shout to terrorize
their own people, they are never nice,
most of them are just heartless psychopaths.

I don't hate anyone, for it's not fair,
but people clamouring - I can't stand them.
Shouting to do is a very shallow thing,
sign of pure lack of common decency,
barbaric, rude, inhuman, callous, cheap.

If you do shout, please keep away from me,
and I will keep away from you, I will,
for life's too short to live under the thumb
of shouting idiots, monsters, psychopaths,
barbaric, rude, inhuman, callous brats.

Sunday morning.
A fragrant storm  
in a coffee cup.

It was sad to see this city lights faded, believed to be neverfading.
It was sad to say goodbye to them, leaving the city,
darkness-blind, looking for roads and ways out.
Soon other cities and towns around got covered by black coat,
it was like a domino effect – everything just got shut down,
and there was no horizon to reach by eyes,
only moon and stars – their lights were dim too.

I stucked in the dark middle of nowhere,
I heard people’s voices in the far calling me out,
but I was beyond the reach and so did they.
I was waiting for a miracle, but soon realized
that miracles don't like us to just wait on them,
they need our help to happen.

After a while I started looking for a lighter.
I found one and lit it up, and I saw
other flickering lights in some distance from here – dispersed.

I decided to follow them and they started to follow each other,
tiny flames were getting closer each other – gathering,
til they created a big bright spot, it became bigger and brighter,
turning the city into a light again.

I don't touch ****,
once touched, it stinks
way more.

I don't touch ****,
I flush it,
quick.
My world and worlds around my world
smell nicer then.

I read newspapers, watch tv
and think:
I won't touch ****. Oh no,
once touched it'll stink
way more and more. And more.

I wanna do
unthinkable things with you,
all stuff that you
would never get down to.

Something exciting
like journey to the moon,
or like skydiving,
when sky is ocean blue.

Something we both
dream about quite a lot,
not brave enough
to turn it into thought.

I wanna do
unthinkable with you,
and I'm quite sure
you wanna do it too.

My gentle hands
are taking off your dress,
please, close your eyes
and let me do the rest.

I've got a new friend, he is called... I forgot.
He told me the other day.
He said he's got many names. At least four.
He told me how is he called.
But I don't remember at all.
He said:
- Don't worry, maybe it's even better that you don't remember,
don't worry my friend. Just call me a friend.
Sometimes I forget my names myself. Who cares!

My new friend comes from... I can't remember.
He said he was born in one country,
and raised in another, then moved somewhere else,
only to move yet somewhere else.
He told me all these countries names,
but I forgot. What a shame.
I said to him: My friend, I'm sorry, but I don't remember them,
the countries you were born and raised, and the countries
you lived before we met.
But he said:
- Don't worry, my friend, I don't take offence,
maybe it's even better that you forgot it,  mate.
It's fine. Let's forget the past. Let's say I'm from here, okay?
Okay. But...
- No, no but, mate. It's not a problem at all.
Sometimes even me I forget when I was born
and where I lived. Who cares! I don't care myself.
It doesn't matter anymore what's your name, where are you from.
It was never a big deal to me. Never something to be proud of, to brag,
more likely something to hide, to cry about.
I asked him: Why?
He replied:
- You wouldn't wanna know.
I said: I would.
He said:
- Nevermind.

Our zoo is not locked up at all,
and it doesn't look like a zoo.
It looks like there's no keeper in here,
but this is not true.

He does exist, he's watching us,
he doesn't let us escape before we die.

He makes us feel that zookeepers are us,
but it's not like that.

But I better shut up,
as he can overhear my words.
I better come back to my lair,
trying to hibernate.
And you better come back to your screeching,
your gibbering and neighing,
your whooping,
then the guard will be pleased,
he will love you.

Sadly not, I won't be here tomorrow,
I'll be somewhere else, someone else.
though I'm not talking about different life,
and I'm not talking about same old death.

I am talking about time that is timeless.
I am talking about placeless place.
About some kind of Hell-free Heaven,
some kind of greener grass Universe.

I'm not talking about having a choice,
or some signs of hope that'd be showing,
but about clocks like broken toys,
and maps like some nursery drawings.

I am packing my stuff - it's not easy:
been unpacking things my whole life.
Feels like turning the course of dry river,
or the blood painted hands of  time.

**** the happiness, **** the sorrow,
no more heartful and dreadful a-roving.
Blind man's shadow - my guide I will follow.
Only future me knows where I'm going.

Poet lives amongst people,
in the land of sadness and happiness, where they live,
he dresses up like them, speaks like them,
in their language he had to learn.
But when he is on his own, he speaks in own tongue
to not to forget it.
He speaks with the dead, he keeps in touch with them,
to make sure everything goes according to plan.

He is afraid to tell what he sees,
in case people put him down and disbelieve.
He forces himself to keep his mouth shut,
he knows the price. He can't just die,
he's on a mission. So carefully
he smuggles in the truth in his poetry.

Have you forgiven them yet?

The moon,
for it gives you out no secrets.

The stars,
for their beauty
which often hurts your eyes.

The sun,
for it never dies, unlike us.

The dead,
for their silent smile.

Have you forgiven them yet?
I ask

myself.

Chicken, turkey's enemy for life
decided to make up, before he dies.
Said to the turkey: "Let's be a friends,
as we will have same, bitter end.

Not far from now till Christmas time
when they will **** us, stuff and dine.
Life is too short to live at war,
let's spend the last months of life in joy..."

But turkey replied: No way, you dirt!
You stupid chicken, go away!
Don't even try to talk to me,
you cheeky *******, ******, ****!

When Christmas came, they caught them both,
and it the same pan put to boil.
And turkey said to chicken, crying:
"You were right, man, we both now dying!

My hatred, anger were in vain,
I spent my whole life in chicken hate.
I want to make a peace, at last
and give you, buddy, friendly hug."

They hugged each other, in the pan,
then boiling water took their lifes.

After work
I usually go home
to rest my body in a motionlessness.

I'm watching tv
and think how fortunate I am to not to be on the screen. And that this world
is a sad place to be, for you don't suffer yourself anymore,
and you don't suffer seeing others suffering,
doomed to emotionlessness of Twenty First Century.

After work
I'm watching ****. That is my way to bring my dead body to life,
like electric shock for someone who died.
Don't blame me for that.
We all have our own way to survive another day in "paradise".

I'm watching
bodies ******* bodies, and I forget for a while, that I am nobody,
and that body
is all what remained from soul,
and that *******
is all what remained from love.

And that all we've managed to save from the End
is naked certainty that there's no God left,
only us, only our bodies,
craving to be alive and copulate.

I hope that is what you wanted to hear.

*** on the moon,
that would be fun,
sweet *** with you
on the yellow couch,
in a slow motion,
with a low gravity.
Without witnesses
and peeping eyes
of people and gods.
No hassle, no rush,
no stress, no worrying
about world outside,
but your eyes, your lips, you *******
and your arrow of light.

*** on the moon,
free of accusations
of sinful deeds,
free of observation.
Not tricked into religion
and society.
Not driven by money
and selfishness.
Not reduced to copulation,
not filmed by **** camera,
not watched by Big Brother,
not registered on CCTV,
not overheard by neighbours
or passerbyes,
superintimate moment
in an endless time.

It's supposed to be joyful tune,
why then it sounds so sad?
No happiness in it,
more like a funeral march.

Look at the bride,
she is so upset, so down.
Oh my God! She's crying!
Does anyone here know why?

Look at her husband-to-be,
his eyes and his whole face, so dim,
something is wrong
with him.

Something beautiful  should begin
with tying the knot.
But there's nothing to start,
more likely to stop.  

The bride was about to make
a great escape, run away.
But her man was faster than her.
And the vicar was faster then her man.

It's supposed to be joyful tune,
why then it sounds so sad?
No happiness in it,
more like a funeral march.

You can come to see me any time, even if
my waves don't whisper your name, don't call you,
be sure I think about you and remember,
for I am all thoughts and memories of you.  

My waters are always crystal clear for you,
ready for your coming, happily awaken,
I hear someone's footfall in the far,
even if not yours, I keep on flowing.

I flow constantly, even knowing that no wanderer
comes down to wash his face in my stream,
I spring, quietly awaiting for your dry lips.

I spill crystal clear water, not caring about the waste.
Believing, that one day you'll come and I'll refresh you.
That believe allows me to flow nights and days.

Radio
was playing Piano Concerto
by Sergei Rachmaninov,
and I felt like passion and love
were filling my heart.

My heart is like a dove.
And I'm off,
I'm off to Paradise.

And it can rain
and it can snow,
and Fate
can tumble the dice.
Nothing can stop me now,
on my way
on my way to Paradise.

What if death is a pretty girl
with long legs, beautiful curves
and shiny hair?

With eyes like milky way,
with the softest lips in the world,
with a smile you can't forget,
with two sweet fruits of *******,
and body, beautifully shaped,
much warmer than any of the living girls?

What if pleasing is the way she smells
and her moves are full of grace?
What if she waits for you
to make you a happy, not sad?

What if the medieval art bluffs,
saying that she is ugly, scary and without face,
and without eyes and lips,
without nose, smile and *******,
but the cold ***** skeleton?
And that she stinks and she limps,
foaming heaves at the mouth,
waiting for you at the end of the tunnel,
where no light,
to take you in her arms and to kiss you goodbye?

You won't know until you die,
but why not to imagine her
in the meantime, called - life.

Three middle-aged men
had told a ******* the train to shut up.

She wasn't even loud,
they were much louder than her.

When she got off at the next stop,
she friendly waved at them.

She won,
she beautifully won
that old, ***** game,
played on the train
by the three middle-aged men.

They say:
"Get a different style every day".
They want you to become
a mannequin of the year.
They want you
to become one of them.
More they recruit, less sad they will feel
being mannequins.
More people join them,
better excuse they will have.

Don't listen to them,
it's mannequin talk,
it's a sad, fake life mannequin way.

Listen
to yourself.
Don't change.