gówno przez ciebie mówi*.

a polish idiom, (ó? goo goovno'h
je sui... przé... ch'eh bede ban bede
moo movie)
it means:
  ****'s talking through you -
true,
but then again, you tend
to write more, anticipating
a **** plop into a basin
of sewer water...
    thankfully, being a man,
i can imagine giving birth,
esp. if it's large, dry,
and in need of clenching
buttock encouragement;
always, always worse than an itch.

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?!

it's not that my life was / is more interesting than yours, it's only that you idealise details with such grandeour that puts me off, my life was / is like yours, it's only that i love paying attention to details, and the more details there are, the more personal you can become, and in-so-doing, it doesn't matter what the details are, which makes your life less embarassing when compared to the lives of orthodox autobiographical stylicism, the orthodoxy of a many ommitted details.*

when i was younger, i.e. prior to the age of 17
i used to be that fat boy
who was into metal music,
collected pokemon cards,
and liked wwf (world wrestling federation),
even though i was also the kid
who didn't see his father from the age of
4 till 8... and upon meeting him as if for the first time
at victoria coach station, watched the lion king
movie with a certain gravitas religiosity
to consider being a son again
after school for how long i don't remember,
but i miss being raised by grandfather joseph
sometimes, the freedom i would have
been entitled to like my father who was abandoned
by his parents... i wonder where the heraclitus river
would have guided me... new zealand, japan...
china... certainly somewhere east...
dear joseph roth... only major characters are thieves
in films, all the cameos have pockets filled with
pennies and they are losing pennies all the time,
frank sinatra told them to do so...
i'm currently ólafur darri ólafsson from
the film: the secret life of walter mitty... and i have
my shadow again, from the gray that's everyday,
i don't need to fill the higher tier roles of being
recognisable if my cognitive mirror is my self,
i don't, i exercise everyday these days,
four bottled beers around a 3 mile circuit does
my heart proud - i watch the choke brigade of
relentless bedroom experteese run a mile all geared up...
so when i was a teenager, all fat and bubbly i
idealised loving women... what hell that brought me...
thanks for the womb... no thanks after that...
i dearly idealised them, each night falling asleep
i imagined... nothing came of it... one turned out
to be a "reincarnation" of robert johnson's lover...
robert dropped dead right on the stage...
didn't end up a fat and a well versed whiskey poet
into old age like b. b. king - whiskey poet?
yeah... john lee ****** took howlin' wolf's spoon,
then came the clue for the boom oom...
rendition of all possible revisions...
jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...
rendition? me me, me me, me me me me...
no wonder the crux of capitalism is that one night
in december... guess the surprise...
ancient slavic lore maxim: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
thumb folded under the index and sticking out
between the index and the *******... what's that?
a fig... co masz? to jest figa dla ciebie!
and where does a penguin's beak bend?
when you show them more than the *******...
you show them the elbow with the arm folded
and tell 'em... this is where the penguin's beak folds!
if you want to lose weight, fatty boy high school crush,
get on your bike boy'o, make those excess lipids
into waterfalls, use your legs to drain the upper body
and you won't have a problem with stretch armstrong
excess skin... during the summers i visited my
grandparents and peddled like mad, my favourite
route was down the 754 route, via krzemionki (flint)
rezerwat (reservation centre), through maksymilianów
where my childhood friend bella the alsatian was born,
and into bałtów, then through wólka bałtowska,
into the masovian voivodeship, through to borcuchy
then onto eugeniów, through dąbrówka, then straight
onto the road connecting ostrowiec with sienna.
the other route... it was in england...
no, wait, that's a lie... my other favourite cycling
route was also in the direction of bałtów,
but in a different direction: through magonie,
boria, stare stoki, ruda kościelna, ćmielów, route 755
through to bodzechów and straight into ostrowiec
(but sometimes through kąty denkowskie)...
my favourite english route though?
i have one specified...
from romford, up to havering-atte-bower,
bournebridge, staplefords abbotts, down ongar rd.,
abridge, through hainault county park
and back home (sometimes in reverse).
so chin hoo fat lost the belly... and stopped idealising
girls, actually lost interest in them...
which is a shame, i quiet liked the fat kid
who put all girls on a peddlestool;
yeah... that could have remained true...
but then he met the girls... and then he met their fathers.

when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's ******* novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?

49.

Men, Niemen?
most, rzeka i autobus
zatacza się w pagórki
          Wilia?
          w upale budzą się Suwałki
          Memel zaciąga brzeg lasem
          znużoną powieką
Memelland ist abgebrannt
          mury
          pagórki
          coraz to milej do ciebie
          miłe miasto

https://yandex.ru/collections/card/5e6f063db651624b1a7fd6ad/


53.

NA ANTOKOLU


na Antokolu
barok wkoło
stiukowi święci
w plafony wzięci
królowie
            żyd jak żywy
            w peruce na głowie
            triumfuje w purpurze
nad ołtarzem w górze
zaś przy drzwiach
z krzyża zdejmowany
nie baczy na rany świeże
dłoń składa na grzbiecie
na nowym habicie
w ofierze
wpółobjęty
z jednego gwoździa zdjęty
ledwo, a już łaskawie
nad mieczykami z ogrodu
błogosławi płotu
regina pacis
dwa bębny tureckie
zdobyte pod  Chocimiem
milczą w kruchcie nad Wilią


60.

JAK WILENKA

spóźnimy się na wieczór Alicji Rybałko
jak Wilenka po Zarzeczu kluczymy; mosty
w zaułki - miasto dla nas na trzy klucze
zamknięte, jak bajka o spiżowym wilku

w Pikieliszkach za dworem księżyc studzi jezioro
para łabędzi przy brzegu - tak prosto romantycznie
i książki w bibliotece dla dzieci tu
nadal dostać można jedynie po rosyjsku

a poezja Alicji, jak gotyk św. Anny
na palach olchowych i workach piasku
w płomienistym po wielokroć łuku
przenoszę na dłoni ten kościół



Stefan Kosiewski; OBY DO WILNA. Wiersze. Wstęp: Dr Romuald Cudak: Na marginesie. Redakcja: Barbara Jędrzejczak. Opracowanie, korekta: Tadeusz Adam Knopik. Łamanie: Robert Kosek. Wydawca: Stowarzyszenie Europejskie PONS GAULI; współwydawca: Radio PLUS Katowice Sp. z o.o. Drukarnia im. K. Miarki w Mikołowie. Katowice 2000 ISBN 83-914127-0-9

Tak bez aspiracji, bez admiracji,
Hałasuje oraz wykrzykuje nie mając racji.
Chaos, Hańba, pogardzenie,
Jestem cool, gdzieś mam ciebie.
Właśnie już, tu i teraz, bez żadnej biurokracji.

Śmierć, ma tyle uroku,
I przyjdzie po zmroku.
Ale o to się nie bartw biedoku.
Się nie namęczysz,
Bo ona Cię wyręczy.
Zaśniesz bez popłochu,
I zostanie z Ciebie garstka prochu.

tybi Bo'*** ciebie potseb: od tego zaklęcia w nagie rogi ostrzem wbić, wygnaniem ja dziecie a tych Lachów zbyt wiele, bo dorośli, laughter at the polish plumbers i ta WIOCHA UCZONYCH! uconych... tsa tsa wedle tsara!

as one Cossack said according to Shakespeare's
titus andronicus
said *titus:
what fool hath added water to the sea
(if it be unsalted, i could understand such a fool
pouring a glass of water into lakes and rivers,
but did he mention salted water or unsalted?),
or brought a ****** to bright-burning Troy?
this defines the 21st century, this quote
(minus the bracket insertion)
from the early obscure play when performed at
the globe over 100 people fainted...
this quote defines modernity,
what fool would bring thinking into an arena
of so many discoveries! what fool would
dare to pour his own thought into the sea
of knowledge! well, maybe it sounds better in reverse,
but it doesn't, given the Socratic nothing bluff
having knowledge of undermining dialectics
rather than knowledge of nothing... ******* bluff...
the 21st century speaks like titus' exclamation...
pour a glass of water into the sea and
no fish will succumb as it might to a fishing-net...
bring a ****** to bright-burning Troy and it will
still not prevent Nero playing the lyre while
Rome is prevented from being a camp-fire that
warms the closely associated, yet disperses and
invokes panic... replicated thought original by
Nietzsche and the madman with a candle
in the marketplace at noon thinking he could
prove god or create the candle's shadow...
we're so, so bound to plagiarise, i fear that humanity
fears the onslaught of plagiarism and replicas
more than death... for plagiarism is so time-consuming
it takes a whole lifetime in order to lie to yourself,
while with death the immortals lie to us too being
immortal with a snap of their fingers, and, we're, gone!
indeed the 21st century is likening bringing a torch
to the burning Troy (London 1666) or pouring water
into the sea (Xerxes' madness lashing the sea for
obedience)... the 21st century just said:
what fool bring his own thought and postcard it
as of any worth to be mentioned as an addition
in the bank vault of savings, of knowledge that
the 21st century self-assurance has claimed to be
as zenith and no further attempt to climb
a miscarriage of physics and entry into metaphysics?
what fool dare usurp the savings of our prior inquiry?
by mere thinking?! who dare he claim to be?
what knowledge is he to provide by mere thought?!
perhaps a woman out there, not known to
the associates of the royal society of physicians might know...
but why bother with such hopes... let's leave it
as a stone upon stone could have been a stoneman
if idiotic prowess of man over cat snout and
missing mandible thumbs didn't instruct him to
construct a pyramid... then i'd **** into a sand dune
a hundred times and mould you father time.

ozór mam swej ręce,
    oko
        w swym pysku,
  a słowo,
                 w swym oku; \ \ \ \
jeno anioł siedzi w mym
uchu, i gawędzi
     jak jakiś chłop
       o marnym wykształceniu;
bo se baba chciała chłopa...
  co by wydoił koze!
a ten chlop...
             hula-hula-hoop!
ucho zbyt warte...
   prawie nie warte
  kiedy serce szepcze;
                     i serce szepcze,
to co umysł głosi na folwarku!
   ten sam: za rok znowu
       wiosna!
       a serce szeptem:
     zapawene...
    a ty nie ojcem oczekiwań
  masz nie zaznać jakąś zmiane,
    chociaż tą najmniejszą,
by dać roku wyrok - tzn.
          ten przed, nigdy nie
     będzie ten po?
   nawet te zmarszczki na twym
czole, to nie te same glizdy
     w glebie ciebie, adamie,
                      zwanym ziemio?

i have my tongue
   in my hand,
   my eye
      in my gob,
and the word,
             in my eye. / / / /

moj jedyny kres to
     watek ukrainski...
poza czym, jedynie
slask wyrósł...
  *contra conslave
  hrabiń, i hrabów.

i tak też zerkam kiedy
na piaskach
ojczyzny...  ależ dziwnie,
prawie, a nawet wcale
jak niby to miało być i na mój
odczuć: ponownie w domu;
                     nie;
i już nigdy tak
                 nie będzie,
pomimo to że z tej
                 ziemi jestem -

pies warczy, pies szczeka...
              las otchłan ziewnienciem
otwiera,
           i tym, zasłania ludzką mowe,
mowiąc:
             to co myślisz, nie jest
to co wiesz...
        jak w ogrodzie:
    i będziecie znać różnice między
myślą, a wiedzą, powiedział dzik...
tym, drugim kłamstwem
   od pierwszego, zapewnionym.

Let us live like Russians on imported grain. Szanowny Anioł Aleksandra Rodik: Kocham cię, a ja potrzebuję ciebie. Pozwól nam żyć jak Rosjan na importowane zboże. Rich people stockpile. Poor people hoard. Rich people are victims of chemical-dependency and require medical intervention. Poor people are filthy junkies who deserve imprisonment.

~ Dear angel Aleksandra Rodik: I love you and I need you. Let us live like Russians on imported grain. Szanowny Anioł Aleksandra Rodik: Kocham cię, a ja potrzebuję ciebie. Pozwól nam żyć jak Rosjan na importowane zboże. Rich people stockpile. Poor people hoard. Rich people are victims of chemical-dependency and require medical intervention. Poor people are filthy junkies who deserve imprisonment. Allahu Akbar means God is the Greatest. Allahu Akbar, President Truman means God is the Greatest, President Truman. O.J. Simpson has the strength of 8 monkeys. Man, that's mucho monkey-strength!