/and because Magdalena: well, the better of me to the church and brothel went, while the Herr Hyde of me took to electrocuting a phallus in a pickle jar, zombified pharma-ratte, norm by bought sold and measured, never the minority report pacified don't touch safe zones on a pavement... suddenly conceived, *****, hanged, drawn, quatered by a stare as if from behind a niqab... liking fingers in a chicken shop from greasy chicken is indeed offence at apparently insinuating ***, because sloth only later asked for a wet hygienic napkin... redemption in braille, as the wolf to little red riding hood wearing glasses:

⠞⠕   ⠎⠑⠑   ⠽⠕⠥    ⠃⠑⠞⠞⠑⠗     ⠍⠽     ⠙⠑⠁⠗

just because your daughters are suddenly emancipated, you think your sons will not take to joys among Bulgarian ******? i could have sworn to have lived longer in an hour than in a month of two spoons sleeping and a pancake fried on my cheek... sure, memorable as eating a grapefruit... oddly enough i have to live with the memory, since you lobotomy is, kinda out of the question... and for once, every single time, i can bypass all ******* jitters... and not once hear a woman talk ******* during *******, e.g. imagine what my daddy would think... major turn off.


I'm not about to throw some *****-fit
just to keep up the kids,
             my apostasy is a bureaucratic
formality with the church,
           but i hardly think it would
even matter,
                    preserved out of a nuisance,
Friday was a day without meat,
     Saturday I duly walked to the church
with a święconka (easter basket)
to have salt, meat, bread, horseradish
and hard boiled eggs coloured
after being boiled in water with onion
skins for a golden finish, and a small branch
of boxwood (bukszpan / bükschpan),
or was bilberry?
    so I duly went to the church
to have the basket blessed with holy water,
to be shared on Sunday among
the family with blessings...
but like I already said,
     no choice with the baptism,
read too much about the gnostic
heretics and didn't choose to be confirmed,
but even I admit, for the sake of
the past, walking into the church
dipping my index and *******
into the holy water fountain,
and instead of making the sign of
the cross, flicking the water onto
the stone slabs of the church,
      and unlike the rest of the believers,
whenever the priest made the sign
of the cross after the opening sign
of the cross, hands behind my back,
standing like a Samson blinded,
but honestly without any real conviction,
in that i am worried that it would
appear that only one man ever existed
and only one man is to be named
among this grey mass...
         even so: easier to cherish a fictive
character than a real person,
      because there's nthe cult of Harry Potter
while Dynamo has crohn's disease...
it's far beyond the dynamism of linear
time: journalism > history > mythology,
     fictional characters will always allow
themselves a blind cult like mass of people,
go to any comic convention and you'll
see grown people put on attire...
               notably concerning
footnotes regarding the man in question,
and the year 1945, Egypt, a shepherd
who unearthed the nag hammadi
library, St.  Thomas' gospel most notably,
and if his house was once a place for
prayer, well: it's become the most
respectable bank, priests on top of
being paid a salary, do not pay taxes
on the donations they receive,
       obnoxious ******* even have the audacity
to collect donations at funerals!
yet the people say: regarding blessing
the easter (wicker) basket that it's all
for the children; yep, catch 'em while
they're young...
                            me? i just can't be bothered
to force some rebellion, notably
within my self,
                           the ******* stopped working
on me with the archeological findings...
now i just gesticulate like the other
lunatics before the altar, acting
whatever tradition there is to be acted
upon...
             which is something you don't
get in a protestant country...
                          stern black,
dark ages 2.0 with the reformation...
and as the Catholic Church was opulent
then, so it is now,
                  priests are called crows
          in these parts, hunchback mafia...                     
twice a year will do me just fine,
      and for a funeral, and for a wedding...
   drinkingwise? odd, not even the slightest
want, it's as this whole country
becomes a rehab clinic I check into
   to test the strength of my own will,
mind you, I don't know who the bigger
  alcoholics are, the English or the Poles?
why? oh, you see, in England you can buy
a 100cl of any spirit,
        and 70cl bottles...
                      in Poland the biggest bottle
is 70cl, followed up by 50cm.
              every single ******* time,
whenever i go back to England I have to
be off my rockers,
                          hardly drinking my own
sorrows away,
                          but that **** western
cynicism,
                at least nearer to Bella Ruś
           and nearer the pine & birch,
  next to cities filled by black hordes of
wings and hardly the same pigeon count...
    the red Sea miraculously parts
and I can finally tell the difference between
voda and vódka...
    mind you, the day will end as captivating
as holding a ripe pear,
             a wine cherry sunset will topple
gold statues and crosses -
    and all i'll be willing to wait for
till peparing myself for due rest,
     is the voice of an infernal diety,
trapped in the barking of a dog at night...
   as i'll wonder: how did people become
so grammatically naked,
                 in synch. with the abomination
currently presiding over english?
sure, pamper the children, give them
candyfloss, take them to the cinema,
to the circus, to the mouse kingdom,
                             water pistols and buckets
to baptise each other en masse
              celebrating śmigus dyngus...