I did this before, spent a month talking
sweetness with old people,
     the usual siała baba mak,
             nie widziala jak,
       a chłop powiedzial:
        a to bylo tak...
          but it's too soon to spend
another month without drink,
     or rather drink and vena,
    that uncontrolled itch to write,
esp. after walking among people
who haven't really written anything,
among people who mostly read
books and wrote with their tongues
books of other people, novellas
which are but gossip, or at best
tabloid tablature of buying bread,
25 decagrams of butter and a chicken
corpus for chicken soup on Sunday.
i did it once, but as the story goes,
I can't shove this into a drawer,
as if to be ashamed of it:
give me a litre of whiskey and I'll write
becoming psychotic over a typo...
never become between a woman
rubbing another man's rhubarb...
     writing is a bit like being a butcher,
or a fish monger, you don't put out
stale produce, you put out what's fresh...
three days so far in Poland,
     from the calm busy streets of warsaw
on Thursday, being approached by
a genuine *** outside the palace of culture
who i thought was going to ask for a cigarette
as I pulled one out to light,
     which I gave him anyway,
     but, he just uttered the words:
    can you give me a sandwich?
       which of course I did, I made myself
three for the road, ate one on the train
from Modlin to central Warsaw...
       if he asked me for money as the next
con-*** did in Charles Manson type
of tongues in polish pretending to need
four złoty to get on the same coach as me to
travel to the small town I'm currently
writing from (end of the line?
   Rzeszów) I wouldn't, and I didn't.
the old *** who I gave  sandwich to?
ha ha... I turned around the another
cigarette I lit and there he was,
    in pure splendour, ******* on polish
culture / politics right in the public,
rhubarb out, on the lawn of the palace
of culture...
                  good man, because what came
on Friday in this wouldn't have been far
from an unlucky 13th... antifa?
            a real shitstorm in terms of
disrupting my travel plans...
       black Friday, which is hardly
an amrican ***** march...
       or like today, the white march:
     czarno biali... might as well change
the national colours, let Monaco
  Indonesia have them...
                   it really took about 60+
pages of Sienkiewicz's knights
oft the teutonic order,
     a brisk walk at sunset,
     100ml of żołądkowa gorzka
   and the fact that I managed to buy
   mead in this town, this:
                      kurwidołek...
    naturally I'll pucker my lips to the mead,
and write some ode to it.