Instinct becomes arbitrary when my willpower deters my integrity
Aspirations are mere illusion when my intuition exceeds my ailing grasp

A ******* creep of disintegrating fantasies releases
a
sense
of realism.

Nicotine surfs my limbs
as thoughts align with tectonic disasters.

Malice masks insinuating balance,
An inevitable roar of discontent prefaces
A cruising tune of initiated indifference
yet hope

I stare into your eyes
Wondering what they hold
Mostly what kind of lies
You were so so cold.

It begins with accusations
Prefaces and falsehoods
Locking me in damnation
Telling me what I could and should.

It's true you never honest
But you kept me wanting
You were forever my fondest
I never knew it would be haunting

Despite all this I still love you
I just want you to love me too.

As I consumed by infinite numbers,
conservative prefaces,
artificial growths,
meaningful labels;
dreadful sins will always be as they are
forever stretching out The Love and a pity
become a perpetual giant concrete wall in between
don’t them all owe me a bottle of heady wine nor just a thank
o, o, o, please,
my heart is already ******!
poured up by their tang of lies
how can I ask for help in a myriad of plastic hearts?

This house doesn't feel safe anymore
You're yelling so loud
That i can't even hear
How hard I'm breathing,
The pain ripping through your voice
A sob in the middle of the night.
Why'd you have to come home high?
The skunk of ****
Prefaces your existence
And everywhere you go
I smell cigs
Put out on someone's skin
Was it your own?
Don't run away from me.
While you were out
Sleeping on the bare ground
A tent cradling you
letting the acid melt on your tongue

I sank into my bed,
And let my stomach burn
I ran away from you

I forget what it feels like
To look up to someone.

You're hurting.

I can't help you,
And I definitely can't help myself
I let a monster into my heart
And I have bile rising up my throat from the thought of their tongue
Against my crooked teeth.

This bed doesn't feel safe anymore
Sheets stained with the filth
Of adulthood.
I'm still a baby.

I wish I could text you
And ask you to protect me
I miss when we were young
And you still wanted to be my friend.

Things are getting better I guess
But when he comes home high
I'm reminded of you
He was too young to remember
But I was awake for the fights
And the yelling match
Echoes while he lights a match
Inside

I'm not afraid of fire,
But I'm afraid you're gonna burn this house down,

And when all I have left
Is ashes

I'll put up my own tent,
And run away.

Thorns cut so deep
they broke through the barrier
of my hard whipped flesh.

  They were coarse,
they were harsh,
and barbed with
the ambiance of
torment.

They pricked at my skin,
ushering up trickles
of crimson.

   The small droplets and lines
  of such a vibrant color
coated my skin in the
philosophy of neglect and
malnutrition of empathy.

Thorns wrapped themselves
around my body, encompassing
them in a way that showed
no
mercy.

I was the result of such an action,
I was cut and bleeding,
and yet I remained standing,
for the pain and torment of the
lingering thorns and their
barbed prefaces became
a part of me.

this poem might be
the hardest to write ever

because i promised myself
i would be genuine

not exaggerate
not tell lies

so i guess
i should get started

and leave the prefaces to
the famous authors

not the poets
or the lost ones

--------------------

i have something to say to
you

you, who is beautiful
despite every word thrown from

an unknown hand
across a glass screen

you, who is beautiful
despite every scar or burn

or open wound you
inflicted on yourself

you, who is beautiful
despite every raised hand

and every shard of broken glass
in class, the kids with no faces and too much to say

you, who is beautiful
despite note you wrote and crumpled up

you used to write i'm sorry into your skin
but you have nothing to be sorry about

you, who is beautiful
despite everything anyone ever said to you

or anything you ever said
to yourself

you are still alive and alive and alive
because now the storm is over

and it's time for the rainbows to shine

the golden age of poetry is upon us, i'll say it outright,
it's not like poets have any high status in society
to begin with, they're not musicians,
they're not painters: a manuscript will not sell for
as much as a painting would:
it's a case of involvement:
what's to be invested...
                    let's rob the writers, scribblers of fiction,
let's: let's definitely rob the journalists...
esp. the editorial section typos for journalists...
let's rob them...
the comedians are in retreat...
people still don't cough up for our art...
like it was always supposed to be free... this, content...
me? i personally don't mind, i get my income anyways...
a debility check from Elizabeth II: well,
not herself... psychotic tripping since aged 21...
bilingual-schizoid quadratic sort of "thing"...
see... i always wanted to be organically attached
to this land...
i am: growing more & more detached from my native
Poland... although... ooh... the wintry air of central
Europe is unlike any other...
i'm also a crow watcher...
    ha ha... it's really funny... on the continent: at least
in Poland... crows tend to congregate,
they flock, once i sat through a mighty thunderstorm
while only spotting... a cloud of crows...
a Mongolian horde analogy...
the crows merge ranks with kafkas... vrona...
honest to god, they can become quiet intimidating...
a whiff of blood... they congregate
in the trees like hooded monks...
a legion of schwarzekreuze messerschmitts...
that's on the continent...
that myth... a legion, a cloud of crows will
arrive at the resurrection of Barbarossa...
but in England? weird... sure... you can sometimes
spot crows congregating in a tree...
but... how do crows travel in England...
they travel in pairs...
******* huginn & muninn...
no higher faculties than huginn (thought) &
muninn (memory): imagination can hide...
i need to think, i need to remember...
i need the theatre of memory since...
last time i checked... the worst "thing" i have ever
done was... **** a ******* silly...
well... stole a CD (queens of the stone age,
songs for the deaf) from a W.H. Smith...
i was just checking their apparatus...
i stole... copied the CD then put the original
physical copy in a different store...
what?!
  i also cheated in my second year at university...
some sociology course... the teachers stressed:
you work will be scrutinised through
an "a.i." (my ***) system to catch out plagiarism...
Thesaurus Rex... how i fiddled with the text
i inserted, i should have been playing a *******
violin for pennies on Westminster Bridge
i was that good... i was so good at plagiarism
employing the thesaurus tactic that...
apparently someone didn't write a computer programme
good enough: i bypassed it... got like a 90%+ mark
on the paper... it's sociology...
i was simply making up the marks
for the French i deliberately failed in my first year...
a French 3rd year major from Grenoble...
obviously she was going to break up with me...
like i broke the conditioning of my bony ****
of a hand... win win scenario...
but the golden age of poetry ought to be coming...
if the comedians are ******* off because of
cancel culture... some journalists might...
some will remain as makeshift gatekeepers of...
whatever's left...
to my leisured care for surprise...
i tend to read all philosophy books in my native
zunge, from Kant to Heidegger...
to Rousseau... i can't read philosophy in English...
but... there's always a ******* exception...
Kierkegaard...
i purposively stashed a postcard from Venice
in this book at this precise point:
hmm... subjective truth... isn't that the only truth?!
what, what sort of objective truth, what
sort of science are people expecting, these days?
water boils at 100°C... it freezes at 0°C...
happy? you want more? how photosynthesis works..
how trees reduce the amount of chlorophyll in their leaves
so that they turn yellow, brown from green
come winter: beloved of mine, season...
the air outside can act like a refrigerator...
no insects...
Concluding Unscientific Postscript...
the appendix... an understanding with the reader...
ahem.. Kierkegaard wrote in the 19th century...
you think we have "readers" these days?
with the readily available comment section?
you buy a book... sure... scribble some notes on
the sleeve... you think you'll hear from the author,
any time soon?
reader?! more like a ******* ******...
A FIRST AND LAST EXPLANATION...
maybe because Kierkegaard was a Dane...
that... reading him in English is as good as reading
him in ******...
but i will not read a philosophy book in English...
beside Kierkegaard...
don't know... my brain is sort of wired like that:
bilingual-"schizoid" & what not...
i just loved reading the rubric of pseudonyms
employed by this Dane...
either / or - victor eremita (Copenhagen,  feb. 1843)
fear & trembling - johannes de silentio
repetition - constantin constantinus
the concept of anxiety - vigilius haufniensis
prefaces - nicolaus notabene (noted well?)
philosophical fragments - johannes climacus

    blah blah... there might have been two more...
but... Kierkegaard can be read in English...
i wouldn't touch any English philosophers...
they're a poetic people, they're a musical people...
to hell with Locke...
the English are too practical,
are, to their shame, huh? egalitarian...
the English must be approached with
compliments, to shy away their vanity:
deservedly earned for their engineering prowes,
but when it comes to shepherding people?
they're... pretty **** at stating standards...
standards: no, necessary constraints...

i can't read philosophy in English...
in my native tongue...
is there a typo in the Kierkegaard
anthology by howard & edna hong...
this one  little word...
part upright part italic...
as it reads (reeds?)
  creating... is that how syllables work?
should it be done, thus:
cre-a-ting?

              oh, i'm in it for the LONG RUN...
finally... i wrote something circa 2016...
also titled it: circa 2016...
now it's getting traction...
i've also experienced some...
of the Streisand Effect phenomenon...
i have been banned... curated: for the better...
hello, herr cursor, hello herr. censor...

a ****** in England though...
my relation to this land...
i can absorb it... i can mesh with it...
i'm loving this land like a native might...
this... ******* DAMP... these overcast skies...
i can adapt... i don't require a Yorkshire lass
to compensate my libido lacks...

that i know how it works....
i'm looking at the numbers...
if i were making video content...
100K+ viewership...
i'm writing... i'm happy receiving 30K+...
you happy? i'm happy!
i get 40K+ views...

look at me...
people have made an effort...
to, read: to reed!
self-congratulatory applause:
clap... clap.. clap-clap-clap...

i know the game... the game is time...
i don't have a surname worth
remembering... it's not...
some -stein...
                        or a hot-
   -lear...

       not even Immanuel Kant....
i'm here.. to own my NAME...
my ナメ...

fair enough... the women will dive into Egyptiology
and the hieroglyphs of Emoji...
as i hope... men will look east... at Japanese /
Korean scripts....

ナラ (NA'H-RA'H) i.e. narazie..
i.e. see you later...

high hopes... no leftover ambitions...
what will be: will be...

any music from the 1980s... from the 1990s...
as long as it has a bass guitar prominence,
i can clearly forget the concept of
a rhythm guitar...
give me bass, give me drums...
gothic...

          eyes of the jungle nightmare -
shadow dance... a welcome break from
the cure or sisters of mercy....
this night deserves my awe.