czytając filozofie po polsku, ojciec mój który wyrósł na chemika obudził dziecie, a dziecie pochłoneło ojca mówiąc: od teraz zaczne, carpe annum, carpe zenith ex tempus, filozofia z logiki czy to z rzeczy rosnących - i w garści magika które wzamian za słowa hocus pocus wymawiane są słowa jan nowak urodzony czwartego kwietnia roku 1912 / zmarł rokiem 1973; czy to z rzeczy stabilnych w sensie inspectio ex continuum, czy też na skali micro (atomów), czy też macro (gwiazd); to ja wydam wartości nie-czytne mym ozorem, abyś ty zerknoł na to co jest warte czytania - obudź mnie w ciele ośmio latka twym ciałem dwudziesto latka... bo sam wiesz że przez tyle lat, nic cie nie nauczono -nawet ten bat i ta dysciplina nie wzruszyła cie aby zgodzić się na kawe przy domu pogrzebowym wraz z myślą: jaki to ma być, ten nowy samochód? z dala - ‘taki aby i trumna też mogła zapiąć pasy.’*

zza młodu dziad powiada wnukowi: matematyka, fizyka i sport...
przed dziada rokiem młody odpowiada:
chłód zimy, spacer i myśl;
kocham obiekt zwany kobieta... lecz nie temat...
mój sam bardziej wypełnia sześć kątów niż jej obecność zmartwień,
co jest jakby gra przegrana, więź tematyki mniej
jako wąż a bardziej jak glizda...
lecz chodząc miedzy kratami i domami anglii dostatku...
widze więcej glizd niż kobr czy też pytonów...
skoro geneza słowa jest brana od onomatopeji imitacji bydła,
nic dziwnego że my tesz na bydło zeszli
biorąc teorie lingwistyki darwina przez ch i es -
nic dziwnego że nie jego,
ale czemu brać pod uwage słowem: jak się widzi
kogoś pukającego w dzrwi w tle “słów”
jakby nie jeden knock-knock żart, więcej limit
tego że z nie animowanych rzeczy nic mądrego nie przyjdzie -
tym bardziej dodając do słownika -
jeno ta pierwsza lekcja zagrożenia małpy bez drzewa
z tym pyskaczem wężem, czyż nie?
jaki jest sens utkwić nową lekcje od rzeczy samych
niewinnych swoją interakcją z cieniem lecz bez machania...
jakie zagrożenie od nich? ah wiem, jeno arachnofobia wedle
kamyka rozmiarem ciągu gór mienia: tatry.
więc szkeliet tego boga zwany: komunikat - przez poetów
wyzwany na igrek i mieszanke czasu w pralce
czystości pomieszany: czerń i biel nada szary -
aby zerknąć w igły dotyku bez wargi,
aby te zagrorzenia zostały które miały znaczyć że
zeszły nam z drogi... aby potem tym samym małpim okiem
patrzyć na rzecz dosyć stabilną i sprawdzić istnienie atomowego ruchy
w stajni, między ślepotą a ruchem, mgłą a cieniem.

El lago una mancha
Parece de azogue.
¡Que arranque la lancha!
¡Que bogue, que bogue!

Mi Musa que esmalte
Adquiere en las cimas,
Será gerifalte
A caza de rimas.

Aromas diluye
Sobre el campo el aura.
Doquier vida fluye
Que el cuerpo restaura.

Ramazón umbría
Sobre el agua cuelga.
La pajarería
Canta alegre en huelga.

Mariposas raudas
Van entre fulgores;
Del guadual las caudas
Dan gratos rumores.

En mundos que fragua
La mente me pierdo,
Y el rumor del agua
Aduerme el recuerdo.

Cual góndola zarpa
El alma a la aurora.
El bosque es un arpa
Que alivia al que llora.

Que traiga el ensueño
Bienhechor descanso:
¡Oh campo, oh risueño
Celeste remanso!

La ciudad ahoga....
¡Que mi cuerpo vibre!
¡Boga, lancha, boga!
¡El alma aquí es libre!

Corta los dedos momias
la yugular marina
de los algosos huéspedes que agobian tu pensativo omóplato
de lluvia
la veta de presagios que labran en tu arena los cangrejos
escribas
el tendón que te amarra a tanto ritmo muerto entre gaviotas
y huye con tu terráquea estatua parpadeante
sin un mítico cuerno bajo la nieve niña recostada en tus sienes
pero con once antenas fluorescentes embistiendo el misterio.

Huye con ella en llamas del brazo de su miedo
tómala de las rosas si prefieres llagarte la corteza
pero abandona el eco de ese hipomar hidrófobo
que fofopulpoduende te dilata el abismo con sus viscosos ceros
absorbentes
cuando no te trasmuta en migratorio vuelo circunflexo de
nostalgias sin rumbo.
Furiosamente aleja tu Segismunda rata introspectiva
tu telaraña hambrienta
de ese trasmundo hijastro de la lava en mística abstinencia
de cactus penitentes
y con tu dogoarcángel auroleado de moscas
y tus fieles botines melancólicos
de ensueños disecados y gritos de entrecasa color crimen
huye con ella dentro de su claustral aroma
aunque su cieloinfierno te condene a un eterno "Te quiero".

Deja ya desprenderse el cálido follaje que brota de tus manos
junto a ese móvil tótem de muslos agua viva
flagélate si quieres con las violentas trenzas que le hurtaste
al olvido
pero por más que sufras en cada cruz vacante una pasión suicida
y tu propia cisterna con semivirgen luna reclame tu cabeza
ya sin velero ocaso
ni chicha de pestañas
ni cajas donde late la agónica sequía
huye por los senderos que arrancan de tu pecho
con tu hijo entre paréntesis
tu hormiguero de espectros
tus bisabuelas lámparas
y todos los frutales recuerdos florecidos que alimentan tu siesta.

Huye con ella envuelto en su orquestal cabello
y su mirar sigilo
aunque te cruces de alas
y el averritmo herido que anida en el costado donde te sangra
el tiempo
atardezca su canto entre sus senoslotos
o en sus brazos de estatua
que ha perdido los brazos en aras de vestales y faunos inhumados
y huye con tus grilletes de prófugo perpetuo
tu nimbo sin eclipses
tus desnudos complejos
y el sempiterno tajo de fluviales tinieblas que te parte los ojos
para que viertan coágulos de rancia angustia padre
impulsos prenatales
y meteóricas ansias que le muerden los crótalos
a los sueñosculebras del lecho donde boga ámbarmente desnuda
tu ninfómana estrella
mientras tu cuervo grazna un "Nunca más" de piedra.

the want for peace is as enduring
as a want for war....
imitation of machine-gun firing
whole magazins into thin air,
and even more thin, fleeting
concepts of echo...
the world, as we make it, in
the given... that hasn't exactlty happened,
and will never happen...
"hypocrite" internet crusaders...
        of that kind and of that demand....
the only undermining of man
is that he should become useless...
am i? am i? look here, a throng!
only satan borne from god asking a question,
only satan borne from god doing ? with i...
figuring it out...
only a satan borne from such: bemused
instance... and the following sentences...
women seem to only wish their men
are content in what they do...
id the men are not doing the thing intended
then they become unhappy...
   i feel i need to state i was privileged...
if i ever had to wait for a huspand
and a bouquette of tulips...
       how i will itemise, how i will check for faults,
how i'll lesion for minor errors...
and call to **** the basis for
   1... or siamese, or why we say
very little for punctuation,
and comprehend much more above the status
of a punctuation mark...
               so i am here, i have a purpose,
satan is man embedded in the world...
what the **** happened?
     it is iota, i turned into ?, rather than !,
as if happens, every time i approach
a cinema or a movie...
            what word could comfort one
when in tears, if not allah?
the jew knows the name of god,
and its comfortably too complex to blah out.
just about the time we first said
our ma-ma our pa-pa...
                   we might have said something
akin to al-lah...
                        and i'll twist and turn,
and "mould"my bodwith repeat
repeat repeat.... repeating
kiedy dzieci w świat wyrószą! -
and i, once listened to a recital,
   a young german boy, of bilingual descent,
reading be a children's book...
on a train... there... what beauty
in lament, and the take to tear....
   ah... that stance for: a man that wept...
what rarity, and what gravity,
and what number they have to argue back...
i've seen more metaphors and
indeed more rivers and waterfalls in
my tears, if i had unravelled
    the said things and walked toward a mirror,
and spoke what they spoke...
and felt the imprint, and have seen
the reflection in such things...
  i am shadow, i am hunch,
       i am exile... what was once,
perhaps said...
                     that i gave up my left hand
for a labrador to knead into pet...
how i then put my right hand into
a fire and retracted it gleeful like
i might be a prometheus...
oh god, once the narratives from antiquity
are so well established, how cheap it all
seems, and looks, how we tire, how we try
to exhaust the cow's ****....
and how we make joke from farting...
or how i am prone to cry,
on a morning palette of having only drank....
and drinking with the morning
the throat is dry-cut sore, dry, sorry...
   lao che's jinn...
              nie chce boga
   (i don't want god), bo szkoda
             (because it's careless)....
             how we mature into wanting so much
more than kettles, knives, and vacuum cleaners...
how we want spirit, ghost, and
then make adamant that there's a need for thought
and a need to disperse it...
   how so much spirit went into crafting thought...
that thing though... it get's me...
that cry for a father... symbiotic with writing
a narrative in western culture...
   odd, how a man capable of being reduced
to tears... can single-handed overcome, every, woman...
meaning he can't lie, meaning he can't believe
in the capacity to faint...
   meaning that he needs no breathing ground
to encapsulate faith...
        the only thing more dangerous than
a man crying when hearing some music
is a woman armed with a *****.
as i take my bow...
                    and duly give applause...
for that is certain... and i am bound in being
kept earnest...
  on the basis: it's really how the whole point
moves forward... i can be the sieve,
or the activity making the sieve... well... sieve...
like akin to filter...
     my native land of birth seems to mythical
counting the next minute to the next to make an
hour, that i almost lost thought to be anything
but.... thingy...
  yeah... every time i travel to poland i''m
most alive when i step into a graveyard...
          tombstones almost has the same sound
when stating the word people...
given the latter move, becomes butchers
and architects... while the latter nothing but
quasi trees, dates of contained yearning,
and sometimes the epitaph...
                oh the swollen grounds of what
is kept, needlessly kept, and what ought to remain...
looking at our own morality,
   i see a history of paupers...
           we are only working from the street up...
poking the case of diogenes...
there i am sown, and there i sow the stubborn
calamity... who would care to manage
competition with the west,
given their sole grammatical competition
was based on the pronoun category?
    i always thought they spoke more shrapnel
than sense...
        big bang theory worth a vascuum...
like i'm yawning... the sound of...
it happens every time i travel back to poland...
i hear, life!
          it's when i'm back in england
and i hear this journalistic dialogue about needing
to export it to remote areas of the world like
Moldovia...
      are journalists that much necessary
if they happen to fake telling a story working from
a per se bias...
   reading the thursday edition of a newspaper
i sorta lost the plot, or a need for a plot...
        i could be offered a circumstance to re-read
that i cowered, that i shrivelled and went away...
     it's only that i spent 3 weeks in Poland
and i really didn't see too much emphasis on journalism...
  or really bother a need to know basis...
   or have to entertain an opinion or to begin with, have one:
like when i didn't have a sparring
partner to create a dialectical outlet / punching bag...
     3 weeks in Poland can cure a man living in the west,
you can automatically stop drinking, read a book
and never even care to write anything...
you come back west and you have this pathos for a need
to write... don't know...
i like how phonos (φoνoς) is so clearly proximate of
pathos (παθoς)...
when wasn't the statment: silence,
   not a concern to say or identify a pathology?
just about when man said too much...
and the otherwise became inverted,
and man said too much,
        and thought very little, and philosophy
came into existence much too late...
if it ever was worth a moral agency,
that thought could ever be inscribed as:
   θ (ought, ought), like some coordinate,
definite... instead of the ******* between
θ (ought) and φ (narration)...
               looks like you're asking for a
locksmith, for ****'s sake.
then they said: poseidon's trident...
let's resurrect symbols, the crucifix and ψ...
now i really lost the tail and injected
an upright spine into undertanding, what the hell
i was supposed to understand!
so yeah ψ (counter-narration)...
    the actual need to overly psychologise
the people stems from, i dare say,
               hyperventilating number of books
in libraries...
it's nice to see so much emphasis on a psyche...
poseidon's signature... ψ... trident?
no?
    don't see it or can't see it?
sounds about the same when you
do it in french with another god name,
zeus, jesus, je suis... je sus... je ßaß
                           mohicans thereafter...
ah, yeah, that night in winter, in warsaw,
i could almost take to the moon, pick at it
and bite into it like i might inton a chocolate
            bit biscuit...
and that's how i made the greek equivalent
of sigma...
  with θ, φ, ψ....
                                 a door... variantion of not
what's to be said, to be said,
but how there's a thought, a morality,
and something that attempts to understand sanity...
i just like to think of it as inserting
a key into a keyhole, and walking through
a door...
meaning the encoding would look like
φ, θ, φ, ψ...
         now i was supposed to walk through a door...
all i have is a ******* acquarium
and a yawn...
      my uncle owned an aquarium once,
lost a leg in a submarine accident...
  huh?
                 me neither... i'm not that audacious
to state there was a big bang and keep
people motivated for the mission: let's get frisky!

wiem, raz w skarrzysku, raz w zakopanym, oprucz napeleona i warszawe, starszą polske widze w krakowie; i drewnianą; bo słowo, ludzie! bo słowo! bo to lud we mnie! nie... nad lud!*

wiesz to slowo,
wiedzma to slowo napisala,
i tyle w twej gardzi nad ukraine
i litwe! boga serce prawda i wiara!
to od żyda... od żyda passah! fu!
gnojowe gowno... szereg kwiata smerci,
w listopadzie nad kwieczien
bo bez kwiata bo z nosem...
listopada bukiet, policze tylko raz...
raz... inno!

oj nie, nie w mej "parafii!" po prostej: spierdalaj z tym dziwatswem, jak naj dalej ty potrafisz! kiedy by to znało swego ojca, by tak samo zamordowało swego nosiciela, kiedyś zwaną matkę: nie kuś... nie kuś... to nie prosze: to groźba!*

to trza ducha trzymać -
i swą odpowiedz dać;
gdyby to nawet w mgle,
w ogniu,
  w czerni lochu
                dna bałtyku!
    czy też
           w węndrówkach
                       cienia: wiatru!
o czym, boga memu,
ja z tobą mam o czym do
gadania?!
czy ty wreszczie zrozumisz
ten żal, mego serca,
kiedy powiem ci:
          kiedyś raz,
teraz "czasem",
      a wkrótce nigdy!
ponad ten jeden bolesny
lecz piekielnie warty raz...
nigdy! wiecej!
wraz z swą morde:
  zór kluskiem i kołyską,
a kwit zęba na poczęcie
gryzu...
            aby to dziecie:
nigdy nie widzialo zwyżu:
ani ksziężyca, ani słońca!

El olímpico cisne de nieve
con el ágata rosa del pico
lustra el ala eucarística y breve
que abre al sol como un casto abanico.De la forma de un brazo de lira
y del asa de un ánfora griega
es su cándido cuello, que inspira
como prora ideal que navega.Es el cisne, de estirpe sagrada,
cuyo beso, por campos de seda,
ascendió hasta la cima rosada
de las dulces colinas de Leda.Blanco rey de la fuente Castalia,
su victoria ilumina el Danubio;
Vinci fue su varón en Italia;
Lohengrín es su príncipe rubio.Su blancura es hermana del lino,
del botón de los blancos rosales
y del albo toisón diamantino
de los tiernos corderos pascuales.Rimador de ideal florilegio,
es de armiño su lírico manto,
 y es el mágico pájaro regio
que al morir rima el alma en un canto.El alado aristócrata muestra
lises albos en campo de azur,
y ha sentido en sus plumas la diestra
de la amable y gentil  Pompadour.Boga y boga en el lago sonoro
donde el sueño de los tristes espera,
donde aguarda una góndola de oro
a la novia de Luis de Baviera.Dad, condesa, a los cisnes cariño;
dioses son de un país halagüeño,
y hechos son de perfume, de armiño,
de luz alba, de seda y de sueño.

qiss kiss ts'kammen
ordeal of the dyslexics.

****** innuendos aplenty:

i cycled with a rucksack full of empty cider bottles
and one tiny 35cl where whiskey would
otherwise be found... i have a fetish for recycling,
a fetish for recycling, not owning a car but rather
two bicycles, long walks in the forest alone,
scratching my head and pretending to braid parts
of my beard: rather, pinching it and twisting the pinched
part so it might appear that i have saber-teeth either side
of my chin...
                   little pleasures...
i would otherwise be known as a: KLOSZER...
KLOSZ... lampshade... kloszer is a derogatory term
for someone in Eastern Europe who collects empty bottles
from skips to later bring back to a shop
to get his WACŁO (VATSWO) - i guess i imagined this word:
in the olden days of the early 1990s...
us boys used to play during the summer running mayhem,
on our breaks we'd go to the shop and buy
TURBO gum, chew chew chew...
and have a little prized paper of a car,
and we used to buy lemonade, later pepsi...
if we bought a lemonade (always in a glass bottle)
and drank it on the spot, returned the bottle to the shop...
we weren't charged extra for the drink...
but if we decided to buy a glass-bottled drink and not
return the bottle on the spot? we'd get charged extra:
glass was precious under communism...
KLOSZER? the person who would scout the urban
environment and pick up leftover glass bottles
for a drink of *****... but i'm recycling and i feel mightily
proud of... "proud"... of this Achilles heel...
baron of crashing chandeliers...
                     but it wasn't raining when i performed this task...
when i cycled to the VAPE shop on North St.
inquiring... i was giving this ASPIRE Typhon 100 as
a present... but the more my lips and breath snuggle on
this **** no smoke comes out... and the smoke is harsh...
coils?! coils?! over-used coils?
i walked in to the shop with the sort of would-be
girlfriend with piercings and tattoos
   and all that jingle at the counter... some random guy
sticking around for too long, i broke his train of thought...
i was trying to break past the smoke pretending
there was a dead carcass in the room and instead of smoke
there were flies... **** me... i'm looking for a new coil...
new coil she says... she starts rummaging...
it started raining by then...
           she picked up a £15 packet of five filters... coils...
PnP-VM6... like this sort of detail actually matters...
i ask her... so how do you change them?
she replies: you just pull it out...
so i pull it out... oops...
                     *** scene worded...
my flask is full of blueberry oily liquid... it spills...
all while there's this: now turning into a creepy guy
in the background obviously not buying just
trying to work his game with this woman behind
the counter... the liquid spills...
playful innuendo conversation: oh... i'm not intimidated...
i have underperformed in my life...
not exactly premature *******... it's just when
she's the madam of the "parlour" and i have no energy
and i need to chop my **** off and replace it with a *****
the fluid spills my hands are greasy
she tells me that she'll get the tissue...
oops... once more... obviously it was a super-charged
***-metaphor...
i can't remember the last time i was called HONEY
and the whole affair was brushed off so easily with
***: in my mind, guiltily displaced...
   i bought the filters and pushed when the sign on
the door indicated PULL...
as confused as anyone might be...
when, where? apart from a VAPE shop will you get to pull
out an intricate part of a tool...
spill juices and have a woman retort with: let me get you
some tissues... i mean... that's super-charged Freudian
forbid might have any choking-jokes aside beyond
the already made via innuendo...

i'm richer than the rich having none of their worries
or the follies,
i do own what the rich own: and for that i am
rich in not having to worry about owning
things that might cause me to worry -
                   if it might be only for a minute or two:
this moulded heap of cow dung
    and mud - and milk and water -
   leave behind all the chains of gravity and marry
air: marry air and rise higher to the highest
point - touch the membrane where air disappears
and what is left is the vacuum where stars dictate
what is and what isn't...

or to better translate...

    reading one poem: Zbigniew Herbert's
   Former Masters while listening to Faun's
Sonnenreigen

and as if by magic my knowledge of English
disappears in my mind to a silence...
eaten up twice, ejected thrice!

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

dawni mistrzowie
obywali się bez imion

        (in der goldnen morgenstund
     ziehen wir aus des tales grund)

   ich sygnaturą były
białe palce Madonny  (und wir tanzen
                                               froh hinein
      in den frühen sonnenschein)

albo różowe wieże
   di città sul mare    (hoch hinauf auf bergeshöhen -
                      
  a także sceny z życia
   della Beata Umiltà      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

   roztapiali się   (lasst uns feiern
   w sogno              (             diese zeit
miracolo                  ( die der sommer
     crocifissione              ( hält bereit...)

    znajdowali schronienie
pod powieką aniołów        
                                                (du lässt deine raben ziehen
                                               in die felder golden stehen
                                                und das helle lichte rad
                                                dreht sich über lughnasad)

   za pagórkami obłoków
w gęstej trawie raju
                                                (muzik gemisch nach chor)
   toneli bez reszty                                      "
w złotych nieboskłonach                          "
  bez krzyku pzerażenia                            "
bez wołania o pamieć                                "
                         ­                                             "
   powierzchnie ich obrazów                    "
są gładkie jak lustro                 (es war nun ein
                                                             ganzes jahr)

nie są to lustra dla nas      (seit ich dich beim tanze sah
   są to lustra wybranych      (allzu oft in langer nacht)
                                                 habe ich an dich gedacht)
....

     sprawcie niech spadnie ze mnie
wężowa łuska pychy           (könig sommer führt den tanz
                                               dem ich folg im blütenkranz
                                               und so dreht sich unser kreis
                                               in der alltbekannten weis')

  niechaj zostane głuchy
   na pokuszenie sławy    (du lässt deine baben ziehn
                                           in die felder golden stehen
                                              und das helle lichte rad
                                              dreht sich über lughnasad)

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

ehemalige meister
sie lebten mich selber
    ohne namen

       (w porannej godzinie, złotej)
    pull us from the grand valleys...
oh ****... incursion of the English:
the red-coats are coming!

       ciągnąć nas z wielkich dolin...

   ihr unterschrift war
weiß finger Madonna  (i my tańczyli
                                               radośni zu-hausen, W
                                 wwww to:
schdat:  frühen-para-freeze: fruit:
early... sonnenschein - sun-lighting
oblivion... sun-glee: shine...)

oder rosa türme
   di citta sul mare    (wysokie
                 ÚP z  
wyżyny górskie -
                      
  und auch sZenen mit leben
   della Beata Umilta      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

geschmolzen sich   (liście nas świętować  
in sogno              (             ten czas
miracolo                  ( there the summer, to i too
                                           that: there, the: to i too:
                                        ta jedyna stokroć:
                                         zerk chłodem oka: powieka...
                                   okno na świat... rano:
                                              i modłem: terz:
                                          anatomia bosa noga...
                                    dzicz: bosa noga boga...
rap rap... all that rap might bring to suffice:
the polyglot presence of an African incursion
into Europe... mumble mumbo jam: tát tát... jum-b'oh!

a thought experiment one awry: trying to exclude
English from my psyche for a little while
proved insufferable, even if listening to a song
on Deutsche and reading a Polieren script...
sneaky ******* has a way to return...
i wanted to keep a perfect translation
of: reading a script in Polieren while listening
to a song in Deutsche...
subsequently translating the read Polieren
into Deutsche and reimagining hearing Deutsche
al Polieren... not in the right interest of
the English philosophy ("esoteric aesthetic")
of queuing... ****** just butter in: elbows held high!

SMUTNA SUKNIA: OGIER: PEJCZ!
   co stonoga-noga-o-gołą: nogę...
widmo... język... mów a mowa...
                                     bzdeta: mów!
ogier: stonoga... wilko-kroć...
  step... mowa: noga... ogień: zór...
jęk: kleṅska: ogień: ozór...
                            język: ksieżyc...
ogień: rosputsta: i nadal mi brak słów!

     crocifissione              (trzyma gotowość...)

    sie fanden zuflucht
unter augenlid auf engel        
                                                (wypuszczasz swoje kruki
                                               by stanąć na złotych polach
                                                i koło jasnego światła
                                                zakręty samo-w-się nad
                                                lughnasad!) ­                                     

   hinter hügel wolken
in der dicke gras auf paradies
                                                (muzyka­: tylko muzyka,
                                                     bez, słów)
   sie ertranken ohne der rest                    "
im golden himmelneigung                       "
  ohne schrei auf grusel                             "
ohne anruf um erinnerung                       "
                                                               ­       "
   oberflächen ihr gemälde                        "
sind glatt wie spiegel                 (to był jeden dobry
                                                           ­  cały rok)

nien sind dies spiegel für uns
   sind sie diesser spiegel die ausgewählt

                                               (odkąd ja i ty na tańcu okiem wgląd
                                               także często w dłuższej nocy)
                                               miałem ja, myśl twoją)
....

     mach es möglich lassen werde fallen
    von mich
serpentin schale auf stolz  
                           (król lato prowadzi taniec
                           za którym podążam w wieńcu kwiatów
                           i tak obraca się nasz krąg
                           w znany sposób)

  lassen ich werde bleiben taub
   an verlockung von / auf
                       RUHM        (pozwalasz odejść swoim dzieciom
                                              stanąć na złotych polach
                                              i koło jasnego światła
                                              odwraca Lughnasad -
                                      
płuco - singular... plural?
   płuca... lungs....
    garden of breathing!
soul always escapes the noun...                       

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

just to double check, translating from ******
to German and German to English,
that how i would have otherwise arrived
on these shores if my only mode of transport
was the tongue:
if i had no legs and perhaps no eyes...
if i were an idea of English that could express
it as I, Ja, Ich...
        and, yes, theirs'...
       iota > whatever might come after...

ah! this is one of those thought experiments!
it has to be! i'm excited!
i'm truly awakened!
this muddle of memory, dream, imagination,
reality a sprinkle of words and hey presto!
starved from images having moved
from the Age of the Image
to the Age of the Music...
it's so simple...
once upon a time you could only hear
music if someone played it good
or you played it badly...

yet when someone wrote a word...
or when someone painted a painting...
it could be written once
yet preserved by time
by this ingenious overcoming of God
(no, not man)
and if god "wrote" mountain man "wrote"
Pyramid,
if god "wrote" river man "wrote":
boat bridge watermill...
if god "wrote" forest man "wrote":
pluck out these trees stop looking
for berries and mushrooms...
look for grass, edible grass! find me arable
land that's not a desert!
of once mountain ranges that passed
from time into non-history
    into keepers of time by the whims
of the fluted wind...
                  
by wind my breath...
by my breath the decay of creative rust...
     i can only create dead things...
with me the power of death-creativity...
i invented the stirrup with me gone
the horse might finally not graze so easily
after the work of civilization has been done...

only then might the four horsemen
come with me dead and the stirrup
   i can only create dead things...
i am the death-creativity...
with me there will not need for the fork
or the knife the spear and the rope
upon waking a new world
i will only know words like mountain
apple tree i will know the word cloud
i will know to say the sea and that sea
i will call the caspian sea: sea...
and the atlantic sea: sea...
    and i will call the Danube the Oder
and the Oder the Vistula
but i will not know what is Danube or Oder
i will be unable to say or dream or conjure
a fork without: the fork
i will be in Paradise...
i will not know the concept of ******
because there will be no word for ******
there will be no Madonna or pregnant woman
there will be no foetus there will be so many words
missing! so many words will be missing...
all the basic words of coordination
will be there: and the Highest Abstracts
will be there: will, hope, dream,
    there will be there: be, am and i,
             there will be: because, are you,
there will be giggle and there would be crying,
there would be sad and there would be happy...
there would be: because and after and by
and there would be...
there would be no knowledge nor anything
concerning grammar...
this revision of "vocabulary" would imply
there being no real vocabulary,
a dream-world vocabulary of:
if said thing goes not exist... there's no word for it...
there would be no word: hammer
because there would be no need for hammers
indeed: nails...
motion of hammering...
there might be a rock and a trick of a hardened shell...
there would be no word for distance:
mile... by looking upon the sun...
there would be the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee... there would
be no Night no Nothing
    no Night in this Hanging Pyramid of Babel...

there would be no Moon or Sun
only the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee...
Glee? SH.... what's SH in shIMMER?
what's IMMER?
(oops... a Socratic stumbling block)
   immer... ALWAYS...
      what's SH+H? shh? be quiet always?!
SH... sound, vibration is sound...
            shh! yes: i'm telling you: it's going to be
like that, always...
   promised you 72 virgins?
wouldn't you just want your mind un-muddled?!
what's un- and muddled?
un- is not... not of when coupled to a noun
that works like a verb... doing the muddling...
medley muddling mummifications: toilet... paper...

toilet? no... no knowledge of toilet in "heaven"...
no paper too...
     word... what's word?
God... what is God... no God...
word is the a priori already invested crown
of curtailing words to begin with...
not imitation sound: __S

ah... sobering up... i love this bouncing along of English
dynamic like everyone is invoked to be involved...

                                          Z__­___

that's how the West met the East in writing

Z_________S

my "god" will be the word ONOMATOPOEIA...
and his son will be MIMIC
and his wife will be NĀMÉ
                        alternative written by angels
as NAMEH... because by then only angels will have
knowledge of the clue, not God,
of YHWH... YHWH will become as comical
as the 21st graffiti spray-painted by some boy
in the outskirts of London...
this scribble should have been preserved by the angels,
but like Prometheus, the arch angel Samael
brought down this scribble...

they brought the mummies and their hieroglyphs
that turned out to be Emoticons...
the Egyptians had two brothers...
the brother Aztec who copied the eldest
brother, Egyptian in constructing the Pyramids
and brother of the Great O of the Orient
who squinted his eyes with avarice and lineage
and said: i'll write like you, i'll see through you...
you give me mummified bodies
i'll give you skeletons...
the Aztec was the youngest,
the Egyptian the Eldest...
  the Khan was in the middle...
and Khan was right... he employed a pre-digitalisation
of scripts... imagine throwing
the letter G into Egyptian hieroglyphs...
some ****** did that to Khan's great counter
of hieroglyphs full bodied...
to hieroglyphs pure skeleton...
prior to Latin: not even Greek was a skeleton-key?
what? letters marrying numbers?!
unheard of?

1111111... one... lllllll (little l)... IIIIIIII (big iota)

imagine dropping a latin letter into Egyptian
"script"...
look what happened when someone dropped
something foreign into
Chinese hieroglyphs and so was born
Katakana... Chinese hieroglyphs came first...
then came Katakana...
then came the elevated:
if the story is true... and the Austrians
think themselves better than the Germans...
someone gave birth to the scribbles...
Korean came last...

       that feeling you get when you're trying to look
for an actor's name:
he playss the role of Grand-Duke?
Emperor? of the Habsburg Dynasty...
the elder brother of Marie Antoinette...
beautiful actor...
                          lips like purses...
who threw that ******* bone against the Chinese
hieroglyphs that spawned Japanese minimalism
that translated: ha! translated Chinese through
Japanese to Korean... split the ******* in two...
towing two! towing two!
                          Zhin Chin ****... silly!
   i'm not joking...
           Žin vs. Żyn... Rzym! Rzym... Rome! Rome!
hmm...
           Źın...          Žiń...
  
ha ha... the Nazis smoked out the son of the devil
of the people who gave them abode for almost...
whenever Poland, converted (insert a snigger...
i have the noun-spelling for it...
but not the onomatopoeia, ha ha... laughter
and rugby)...

change of direction at work...
i'm feeling an aura of: DISTANCING...
people are feeding off the appetite of me: leaving...
and their lives being over...
of course they will not be over...
they'll be feet in not worn shoes
in shoes boxes on shelves in libraries
of fickleness of the female side of humanity...
only angels should have been given
the crack-head code of the 4 letter "signature" of
YHWH... i'll give Jesus credit...
well... Beelzebub...

HANGU:L! that ingenious king of Korea
that: seeing a stick being thrown
at a bunch of sticks assembled as a shelter
of the Chinese hieroglyphs witnessed as the Japanese
folded... worked on an argument
of introspection: kept it...
hmm... what are those weird ISLADERS
******* around it?
they have the BOLD katakana
and the ITALIC hiragana...
two ******* trenches...
just let some westerner know:
the Hiroshima (katakana)
and the Nagasaki (hiragana)...

   Chernobyl and Fukushima...
the pregnant women were advised to drink iodine...
boom! boom! boom!
ergo? no real, comparatively: "boom" as boom!
or  BOOM...

it's the second morning i'm woken up from briefly dreaming...
point about dreaming? the content doesn't matter...
i'm not a hyper-focused Freud...
dreams are dreams in
how fog is fog and a hurricane is  hurricane...
dreaming heavily:
you feel exhausted if you slept for 10 hours
or 5... dreamless...
you slept: you didn't dream...
but dreams creep up on you:
they play fakery with your body:
you weren't sleeping: you were dreaming...
unlike getting blind drunk
and... sleeping: not dreaming...
with the lesser baggage(d) people...
snails? no... elephants! no ivory tusks...
already no fur... no drunks...
edible cartilage of the ears...
flapping... hmm... i might have to invent
a rug... a place to take off one's shoes...
shoe?
shoe prior to sock? obviously...
shoe prior to sock...
sexed up legs... procreation by the chemical
demise of acting...
if not sold to actors:
a god-send...
i could **** each any every ugly *****
but... god almighty... the impossible feats...
with Xerxes on your back?
the second battalion ambush of Greece?!

currently as is "currently": and, ahem... "history":
a history of plug-hole psychology
of inescapable Darwinism: cuckoldry...
or Plato's ***** joke about the feminism
of Hindus and their tired, wasted concern for Hygiene...
they bathed with the dead...
so the dead came and ate up the living...

for the past days... of note... two...
upon waking i hear my name being called:
Mateusz!
not twice, thrice, just... once...
i rush down and ask my mother: have i overslept?!
did you call me?
the replies: no... i haven't called you...
why am i: Matthew?
                     i don't think i'm: Matthew Smith
or a Matthew Czopek or a Matthew Eschlert..
or a Matthew Matthews...
why was Jesus Christ not Jesus ben Josephus
ben Matthias?
                i wonder... not really: "wandering"...

it was but a little nugget of inspiration of marijuana
and i went off the tangent...
i would not replicate the original ******
poem into German
   and the German song into ******...
because... springboard og ingenuity
English woke up!
as if: spontaneously...
i can't appreciate poetry written by
mono-linguists or ****-up: kissy: tut-tut..
smooch kiss-up immigrant ****-wits
of: this is only a Lingua FRANCA...
"franca"... a tourist-tongue...
it's a ***** tongue...
people speak it, leave it, abandon it...
sometimes perhaps frame it...
it's a tongue of commerce and Babel
and... at the end of all the tongues coming
together to speak it...
a rather: unsatisfying tongue...
over-salted... over-pompously-self-solidifying
complicated-soliloquy... solipsism...
something this: that: self-
    +-evidently apparent that children ought to
be teaching this modus operandi... *******... ha ha!

letter will not be know since words will not be known,
we will, although know words, that will be sounds
not scribbled down, imagination will be
nullified and nothing will be born with sleep
and dreaming will be alien to us,
since we will not be myopic
*** will be friendship and: we will know not
the word for tool and the specifics of ingenuity
and genius...
there will be no word for man...
and there will be no word for woman
and there will be no diatribe of death and child...

my uncle is in hell and i can almost count
this auditory hallucination:
i will have no concept of auditory: because i heard...
within the non-existence of my bones
and body and blood and brain and heart
in the water and earth turning to air
with each breath...
i will not hear... how my uncle: calls for me...
and how did you live with your mother,
when she aged to a nearing rot...
i lived with them and not people i would exchange
for a properly working bicycle-lock...

for each ******* i would replace the glorious
half hours i had with them
the months i spent with my supposed "lovers"...
i'd take one half hour with a *****
to replace the courting with said woman: unsaid:
to procreate and teach "my" children:
children of the times... flawed lessons
of the march, ancient march of typology
and non-writing and Time as Dust...

am i to help you when i implored the non-existent
deity into my *****,
indirectly you might implore for me:
will i reply to the heaven sent:
what am i to do?!
do as i did: absolutely nothing and nothing too,
that's twice that's hardly not a scone
scuffed and chained to Baron Zung...

            speak two tongues and tease a third...
come the fourth... letters have to turn into images...
in this heaven of no sheltered virgins..
in my noun-basket i will not have words
like pen, or: boiler, roof, eyeliner,
i will not have:
          screen, cinema, actor,
           philosopher, poet, psychologist,
soul: i'll have my self-eating cannibalism of breath...
verbs will merge with nouns
and the only nouns worth existing thereby will
be: specified and "corrupt" by a localised
specialisation:

                 god will be ONOMATOPOEIA...
the son will be MIMIC
and there: within the confines of said time
MIMIC will battle Chimera...
MIMIC will look alike: Chimera
but Chimera alphabetically:

    CHIMERA = ACEHIMR

                   the dead are not so displeasing
when it comes to the living-as-if-dead...
and there are plenty of those
living such: body-and-soul-crushing...
no... i couldn't imagine myself marrying
a troll... just to somehow oddly fit it...
i'm not going to reply to a message:
me and Nicki... says Frankie... are over...
reply: to what? and did you hear
my side of the story? no? no?!
i don't have to hear your side, either!
oculus per oculus!
like for like:
dislike for dislike!

           i'll wait... i'm not actually waiting
for anything other than:
can you please leave me alone?
i'll reply you whenever i feel like it...
i don't feel like
wanting human connection for at least
two days...

there's a hell and a privacy one earns to have
earned it that one rarely wants to
have it made public...
albeit in the "public anonymous"...
all the more willingly... since no immediate
consequences are to  be met: face-to-no-face...
tired of replies...
walking lesbians into the night
is like pretending to not walk
cows into the slaughterhouse...
ego-***** replacing what once was?
Plato the Plumber and the blocked toilet
of reincarnation...
i'm done with pride... Herr Dapf...

             for the waiting to be dead,
falte der primast schattierung:
für das Warten tot zu sein:
ich möchte auch tot sein...

   a death with the hollows
of the hallowed wooded emptied bark....
suffer the sound of a thunder-stroke...
donnerschlaganfall:
all aligned with things living...
nearly: or waiting to be towed toward
A... death...

           morgen?
                          tòmāté...
*******: SPUD!
           morgen butter-kneaded? by the hollows
of said, suggested juices..
my knees are not enough:
meine knie sind nicht genug!

Tudescos Moscos de los sorbos finos,
Caspa de las azumbres más sabrosas,
Que porque el fuego tiene mariposas,
Queréis que el mosto tenga marivinos.
Aves luquetes, átomos mezquinos,
Motas borrachas, pájaras vinosas,
Pelusas de los vinos envidiosas,
Abejas de la miel de los tocinos,
Liendres de la vendimia, yo os admito
En mi gaznate pues tenéis por soga
Al nieto de la vid, licor bendito.
Tomá en el trazo hacia mi nuez la boga,
Que bebiéndoos a todos, me desquito
Del vino que bebistes y os ahoga.

alesz ty brat ty mym... co wspomina serce, jeno ortografią... taki brat z ciebie: tym: huj z tobą, bratku warszawiaku! szkic ciebie, na ołtarzu kossaka - frajer z ciebie... ty: gówno wart frrrrrr'a jerze! huj z tobą i pospolite pogawędki! sznór na szczóra! a oświęcim pyta: teraz?! zaraz... za-raz (pierdolona zaraza szwabem ryta)... gazem tylko po dziewiątej.?*

najgorsze wiersze pisałem:
a najlepsze...
puściłem w wiatr!
horongiew reką pisać
to tło narodu...
ten tatuaż historii!
co zwałem mym tchem -
i co nie: na boga kara
i jego zbawieniem ołtarza:
na to: dałem wiare:
swym głosem,
by wiatr znikł, czy też
zamilkł! tym jego
pierwszy ruch bielą w
                                biel
i na tym, pytam:
                   tylko kość?!
nie! wapno! i stolik! i drewna
na sto lat!
               a ta ruska
hydra! ma coś do gawari
by? by wybyć więcej?!
co? ta ruska pizda huja szuka?!
ah... brak jej mongoł:
szkic i ten azjatu: szept!
  wnet pizda tego szuka?!
                    huja wróbla!
   pani! czemu nie tak do-słownie
po prostu, od razu?!

cienia krok, króka gambit, czy to samo pochylenie możliwe? czemu w polsce oznacza się na księdza: krzyżak, tu-ton, pruß? a na króka: sen barbarossy, siwa chmura, cień króka taki sam, co króka swoboda, nachylonym chodem, krók: cień przed moim cieniem; anioł stróż wyrytego oka, na-pół ślepego odyna.*

tu stanie twój pierwszy krok -
tu twój chłód tego
słońca zakrytym cieniem -
tu stanie twój pierwszy krok -
iglasty i wypasiony
                wiepsza śliną!
tu stanie krok, cień,
klątwa, gwar, i krók!
               piramida: PO SĄG!
wyryje swe imie w te brzytwy
londu...
      dam to imie tej "nadzieji" -
księga zmartwień,
ja sam, na marną nadaremno -
          z nad boga: o okruch błagać? nie!
       tu, tu, tu: wyryje
swe oblicze z nad zamiarów -
wedle tła: tego, co jest na co dzień
milczący jakby martwy syn,
        przed żywym ojcem -
krzyż - ten ojciec surowy -
czy też syn o krzyżu mówny -
przed martwym "ojcem":
synem wraz mówiący:
              przeklęta ta niby: niewiasta.

przeciez wy mozecie
wpatrywac sie w sciane
ciegiel, i klamac,
wyglaszac! opera! teatr!
opera! daj wam boze...
jak niby jezus z tymi
w pacierzu z boga
swiatyni...
   jak z wami! poszli!
                w grat z wami!*

if brick have more worth for
you,
   then you certainly need
no gallery...
if you require bricks,
bricks is all you'll get,
a chess-board
rather than a da vinci...
   beginning with the primordial
sin, the sin secondary to it?
stealing from artists...
you steal from artists...
you steal from everyone else...
you make creativity a zeitgeist,
when, de facto, there is no
creativity to speak of...
nonetheless, you steal,
you are the unfathomable grey
areas of "reality"...
        cheap ****** without
actual *******...
              people do become
chairs, and tables...
persian carpets rolled-up
at night,
             and stored in bedrooms,
and the un-rolled when
  the morning comes...
such pathetic peoples...
              even if they grasp
a degree in studying x-rays...
but when you ask
for free art?
   when you demand free art?!
what do you expect?!
                     art?!
    no, you have it all wrong,
you keep forgetting
the principle correction...
the more you ask for free art,
the more
   mathematical / geometric it will
become, the more you lessen
a need for patron, the more
the human aesthetic will become
cubic...
  unrecognisable... and all
the more ugly, prone pronographic...
whatever...
                  yesterday's egg fried rice.

En su país de hierro vive el gran viejo,
bello como un patriarca, sereno y santo.
Tiene en la arruga olímpica de su entrecejo
algo que impera y vence con noble encanto.Su alma del infinito parece espejo;
son sus cansados hombros dignos del manto;
y con arpa labrada de un roble añejo
como un profeta nuevo canta su canto.Sacerdote, que alienta soplo divino,
anuncia en el futuro, tiempo mejor.
Dice el águila: «¡Vuela!», «¡Boga!», al marino,y «¡Trabaja!», al robusto trabajador.
¡Así va ese poeta por su camino
con su soberbio rostro de emperador!

Yace entre yerba y zarzas el altar escondido;
y la fuente que cae gota a gota ignorada,
va con su son quejoso llenando la hondonada.
Es la Ninfa que a solas llora un eterno olvido.

El inútil espejo que se tiende bruñido,
apenas copia el vuelo de paloma azorada,
y la luna que boga por la extensión callada
refleja allí su triste rostro empalidecido.

Pastor errante, a veces se acerca en el verano;
bebe, y en losa antigua, del camino a la vera,
riega un poco del agua que le sobró  en la mano,

Ademán heredado hizo con fe sincera,
y sus ojos no vieron en el altar romano
el vaso libatorio y al lado la patera.

jeden osiem L's* jak zapomnieć,
hit, rmf.fm...
                 Sylvester in Poznań...
perfekt...
  absolut vanilla...
gosia...
shopping in Ikea...
matrix revolutions
soundtrack...
3 nights sleeping together,
she licks my face
and doesn't speak French
tender lips foreplay
prior to oral,
prior to engagement ring
of full on *******...
shame...
helping her move abodes..
vegan flatmate,
anorexic,
    seen fatter skeletons...
star rynnek...
    the saints at shábát...
the angels at yom kippur...
gniew Boga serca płoszy..
a miłość jego...
to brak rozumu...
'zumieć...
                dunno...
it was dark and we slept
in the same bed for two nights...
and when I expected a kiss
on the lips...
     she licked my face...
less ****** genitalia
and more... imagine what I did with
my tongue, other than speak...
mały figiel i o R...
   can we introduce the trill
on the arch... to mimic rattlesnakes?
no?
           perfekt, na podwórku...
miałem osiem lat,
gdy pierdolną we mnie wiatr...
   i co? cuga! hytrem łowi
czinka, czyli rybą Zinga... u,
pod B... suma!
- jebane stokrocie.

Como quien boga contra la corriente,
aun comprendiendo que su afán es vano,
y el remo se le cae de la mano
y se siente arrastrado nuevamente,

así mi amor se aleja indiferente,
pero, al recuerdo de tu amor lejano,
reverdece el deseo en su desgano,
y regresa mi sed hacia tu fuente.

Y, andando y desandando este sendero,
a la vez desolado y florecido
y jamás recorrido por entero,

no sé por qué renaces de mi olvido,
ni sé por qué me voy, si es que te quiero,
ni qué me hace volver cuando me he ido.

only the english are applied to this "sentiment",
well, let's call it an honest observation:
only the english are capable
of making philosophy a pompous endeavour,
i guess that's because they are
pompousness best exemplified -
     they always considered themselves
the belly-buttons of the world,
far beyond the talk of hemispheres,
their's was always the greenwich meridian:
here is my, year 0.
              why should philosophy ever
become a pompous endeavour?
       was it ever?
                only the english could think
of philosophy as a pompous endeavour,
but there's nothing pretentious hinged on
the shoulders of philosophy...
   philosophy at best, is idiotic...
          or at least: the highest form of acting,
the sort of acting that says:
well... it's hard to play a mr. bean,
it would be much easier to play someone
with at least three dimensions,
   akin to a blackadder - cunning and
intelligence you can anticipate and play
with... but idiocy or faking it, well,
that's a hard gig to pull off...
                         since that sort of comic idiocy
is anticipating you, like a god
before an altar... rather than you investing
time & effort into prescribing the populace
with its exitence, staged.
          it's always harder to play
the idiot, than it is to play the manipulative
member of an intelligentsia...
in summary, two equations:
if sophistry = the study & pratice of rhetoric
then philosophy = the study & practice of dialectic(s);
i'd say it's harder to play the idiot
than it is to play the grand "intelligent"
rhetorician...
         in the latter you really have to try,
in the former (example) -
   the idea toward such a will is to avoid
trying... faking becomes
   more tiresome than actually trying;
ah yes, in conclusion:
     dla boga ból,
      dla diabła: nuda
    (for god, pain,
               for the devil: boredom).

Boga egok
co sigma wypcha
na tchu gnić
obojętnym skon