it was only supposed to have lasted
from the 22nd March till tomorrow,
the 19th of April...
but looking at it,
I'll be spending an extra month in
this once, formerly, town with
a bright future, communist red,
where, once upon a time,
buildings that could house:
2 x 10 x 4 = 80 families sprouted
out of thin air,
like steroid mushrooms after
the first rains of autumn...
and the local team played
in the ekstraklasa...
and this that and the other...
now... civitas emeritus...
town of pensioners and
niedobitków... the rest of rats
jumped ship...
once around 17,000+
men employed in the steel works...
now? plenty of greenery,
the odd alcoholic teaching tango
and enough empty space and timeless
vacancy to fill up...
the ongoing retirement of 20 odd years
of my grandfather... 2ho's brain
is slowly being eaten away...
by, as he says, in the pospolity zór...
leń... no killer proteins just yet,
but something tells me being the last
person standing among your
friends, nuanced friends and
all the formality of acquiantences
can do the head in.
small town, small business,
I don't even know if I can be bothered
to hit the road and head up to
Marienburg...
honestly pains me, but I wish
a ******* termite would climb into
Sienkiewicz's krzyżacy...
the book is killing me...
and even if I did make it to Marienburg,
i'd come back and still find
the grueling grill and the żelazna
dziewica about
to poke my eyes out...
classic, yes, pillar of
literary national pride, probably,
necessary export? in film alone...
plus
- I heard termites find paper like
some sort of Oriental delicacy equivalent
to man and the world and his
whorrish-glam Harrod's oysters...
only Arabs and Harrod's and that
**** pile of glitter is like puke on canvas
by *******... a question of conneisours,
or car boot sale enthusiasts of Essex County.
- just one more month,
far far away, from the dirge of London,
and the subsequent outer suburban
labyrinth of weeding out middles and clues
and classes in counting hairs on
the heads of brooms, contra: violin bows...
and never to my liking the spectacle
of spring on that ****** island...
cherry blossom so rare,
unlike that street in Bonn,
Spring on the continent
in general, not to mention the eyes
becoming more and more used
to the monochrome homogeneity...
with me, as the sole importer,
the sole Marco Polo who came from
a vicinity of the East End Caravan
with 'indu spices, and cooked the old
farts curry...
plus the intresting news
regarding an organisation, O.N.R.
i never thought they might
exist, good to know that there are
exteme, fringe groups out there,
worthy contenders with the mainstream
mullets...
and yes, Marienburg
will definitely continue to look better on
a postcard than in real life...
a walk in fresh air,
a beer and sandwich an I'm off to the land
of Nod... dreaming of sleeping
and waking and finding something
between a stash of: pearls,
eggs, silver eggs, silver gooey tadpoles,
silver-azure frog spawn...
and then falling back to sleep in
my dream, and subsequently waking
to my grandfather nagging my grandfather...
which ends up with a cigarette
and a consolidatory piece of
mole mound cake for each of us...
and the day is spent...
I'd have to be daft not to "hide"
in this outpost, learning more and more
about the: kashubians, der pyry...
hanysy (warsaw shlang für
scheiße, schlauß) / silesians...
rzeszowskie rubieże...
zór mazowsze (masovia)
krakusy i czystosze...
and what about that cwaniak
warszawski, z prahi, ten... andrus?
swa-vo-merrh, piszem sławomir...
tak samo jak ten goalkeeper a t'
'amtem in crux: golkiper...
prosze bardzo, prosze prosze...
gramatycznie to raz,
a fonetycznie, to dwa.
I mean, why would I leave this outpost,
when there is absolutely no reason to
write any form of existential angst...
where I can be told:
born on the 15th of May,
the day when Saint Sophia takes
to blooming lilac, when lilac wakes...
back in England you really have to scout
for spring, then again daffodils are not
trees... plus there's this missing natural
orchestral harmonium of successive waves
of some other botanical form finding
intrest, as if an reborn whisper of curiosity
and joy...
which, your garden variety
of English... doesn't really tell you...
unless it's spring, you couldn't tell a difference
between it an soggy summer...
or for that matter, bland Victoria sponge.
but what I don't miss in the least is...
leeching drunk to the internet's blank pixel
slate...
even I know that a sober poem
is sometimes required,
which doesn't exactly dissolve the otherwise
entrenched darting juxtapositions
and Dr. Braillesurf's stipend and in genral
streuenhirn...
in general the Internet and fame,
based on two songs...
donkey's years since I last heard
rizzle kicks' mama do the **** -
released in 2011, views 17+ millions...
don't ask me how an algorithm took me
to the other song...
only heard it today
released in 2007... only heard it today...
panamore' misery business -
views?! 153+ millions, yes, that an extra
000 added to the first song...
and still 11 years later...
it's this sort of oddity that makes
me believe in the local government,
small cities and in genral the village life...
the neighbour and the gossip angst of
these people...
some say: at least they'll come
to the funeral...
looks like
I already found the string of planets
de Saint-Exupéry's Prince Petit visited...
and my own among them...
good to know, that it's a small world
after all, and not some competition
to transmit a radio broadcast from
either the zenith of the Himalayas,
or the nadir of the Marina Trench.
