/not exactly an easy poem to write...

let's just say that i was going to title
this poem: 3am extravaganza...
  and write a revealing diatribe
about how I went to sleep at circa
1am, after having finished watching
gone girl, to be woken by my
grandfather, turning night into day,
eating half a cream cafe
   with ketchup and acting the most
primitive of creatures,
an animal caged,
  perhaps by walls, then again
by the big pharma...
                me? little pharma boy,
he stumbling, wearing two pairs
of glasses,
                   and all kinds of images of
the horror of misery,
notably able limbed, with a
receding mind, or better still:
a mind like a magic trick with
no preplanned execution to awe
a crowd, just me, acting out
a quasi psychiatric nurse...
    nursing not so macho?
probably elsewhere than in
the abolished asylums of England...
    Mike?! Mikey?! Mister! Myers!
I'd hate to write the details before
my eyes and not imagine angelic Amy
tripping and sour in a slurring
tangent...
         not exactly extravagence with
a man nearing 80...
           bashed around his room,
turned on the lights in the corridor and
his room, the television, and the radio,
ate, circa 0.5kg worth of cream cake with
ketchup....
    all I can truly remember was my
incubator voice...
   minor quest and I'm sure his son
(my uncle) has seen very little of
his father's (my grandfather's circus)...
one qualm though:
    we didn't sightsee the Warsaw old town...
but much of Cracow,
and thankfully he went to see
Auschwitz twice:
    perhaps he still has sentiments
for Georgian Joe...
               came my role to ask him
a few details about the remnants of
the night, and his quest / attempt
at falling asleep sitting up...

    already too many details...
   funny... the youth and madness...
     never really looking into how
the romance and the poetry dies
a sullen and sombre death,
when mingling with old age...
    as such: these people would
probably rather become blind than
have to explain to the en masse
    the Chernobyl winds "invisible"...

no, Sienkiewicz is, honestly,
a tedius writer, not some national treasure,
in English: objectively...
    twice bolesław pruß...
         not exactly complicated,
not exactly tedius,
     not exactly: but exactly repetitive...

came a thought, an escape plan...
***** gut, Friday night,
a girl crying walking behind a boy,
a starry night, a candle and a quantum
cat sending me vibrations from
the outer-suburban spiderweb of my
distant hole, and closure library editions
of books, not found in the public
local...
    
still, to borrow from Sienkiewicz...
        
    bi den rôsen er wol mac
tantaradei!
    merken wa mir'z lac...

(po rózach może on poznać
     gdzie moja głowa leżała)

     Walter von der Vogeldweide

  (by the roses he might recognise
where my head lay)...    

     and then back into the clutches
of the octopus and 24h newsreels...
and since did fame = insomnia?
          as ever, language overladden
with more metaphors than nouns...
  
to cite marlene dietrich:
      the Germans and I no longer speak
the same language...

    even though I speak English and western
Slavic... for some strange, godforsaken reason,
I might as well be speaking Mongolian...
    chameleon and at the same time hyenna
that best recites: a city with necrologues...
with claustrophobia made by
old testament neighbours...
       peacocking death,
and the gold filled rooms of
the easily seen blind, deaf and half
limbed...

             essentially:
ailments worth the concerns when
admiring the lifespan of butterflies...

1st of May and the holiday:
    the day of work...
I knew that the 3rd of May existed
as the day of the constitution,
but the 2nd of May was most minded,
even though not, an official
caldendar red-card day...

sure, in England the flag day celebration
happens, every 4 years,
after the group stages of
the world cup...
                  red and white over here,
and over there too...

once upon a time I was under the impression
that I spoke both English,
and that I too spoke Polish...
   as it turns out,
        the upper tier of idea is
no man's land for me....
      apparently there are necessary
people to talk about...
            back into a language of verbs,
back into the comforts of
buying apples rather than growing
apples on a farm...

point being:
I'm not Italian enough to speak
urban english,
     metropolitan, "left"...
  and to speak minor town Polish...
I don't have to say anything...
a waving white & red flag...
        translated into English:
too bad Jacob...
                 a name a jew and the whole
RIPPER tourism feeding
with glad eyes on brick lane
at the bakery selling salted
beef...