i generally feel constipated... that's probably
the best word to use... constipated...
i was sitting in Warsaw's modlin
airport, and it felt, very much like
a scene from james tissot's painting:
the ruins (inner voices).
i just kept admiring this guys
beard,
in western lingo he'd be classified
as hipter...
**** me! so much ***** hair!
resurgence of my beard-envy...
my my, if i only donned such a bush,
i'd be the first one on the dancefloor
peacocking a ******* of sweat and leather
grit...
alas! not to be.
a thought concerning a cottage
and a return to the countryside did shine
for a bit... how i remembered having
a russian girlfriend and how i couldn't
see a larionov, or a tatlin, or a goncharova...
or a mashkov...
a kuprin... a konchalovsky...
shukhatev ****** grigoriev...
i also call that: predating the selfie,
via ilya repin...
see?! constipation...
i'm literally bound to heave this tomb of
past lives, expected to recount some chess-prodigy
or some other, chess-komtur.
for the help of god i can't ease out
a **** into the toilet that's supposed to be
human history, for the love or antagonism of:
the abstract deity...
back when it meant concrete things:
hades the shadow-******, zeus the lightning bolt
and incarnate libido-starved swan,
poseidon and juiced up knicker-oysters
of a woman's genitals... so they came:
with their floral pattern analogies!
my, and what a worldly invitation
that came to be... niqab bound, or by western standard:
a little more than the pauper's veil...
enough dough to cage the poor women
and keep them motivated to live, that dull
caricature everyone else knows to be life...
i should have stood up and gave my
investment into jealousy, right there and then...
it's unfair that you have more ***** hairs
on your neck, cheeks and chin than i!
oi! give me the same fertility gimmick!
that's me, and there's people doing cossack
adventures into outer-space...
it's like i want to laugh...
but i can't, because i'm suffocating on paper mâché...
yes, i feel constipated,
if i'm to be called a civilised person,
and not a barbarian...
i somehow, have to, ingest,
this backlog of human art,
i have to know certain names
i might recall for a baby-shower congregation...
and aphrodite gave us aphorisms...
****'s sake: anecdotes!
that's me being a civilised creature...
but still that ****** constipation...
there's never enough: because there's too much of it!
and if you cite this painter, outside of Poland:
matejko...
you'll probably have
a saint's'-feast day named after you...
i really feel bloated...
i have too much human history to account for,
it's always a case of juggling some grieving
priority...
as is the loss of experiencing the everyday
pH 7 body temp. 36.6°C...
i am literally forced into taking up
the role of censor...
to look cool and not admire the statue of david,
or make a pilgrimage to the Louvre to see Mona Lisa...
a peacock's tail on a flamingo strutting toward
a ****** drama of *******...
once more, this constipation,
and this fake, as if: i'm supposed to be thankful for
the ****** inheritance... i ain't!
take those masterpieces to the grave,
while i try to re-apply myself to
creating a thing of beauty from playdough...
most people never get the idea
of rust, let alone dust...
thankfully the two words rhyme,
and thus the easier singalong congregation:
of the ores... sunset hue man,
extracted brown and burgundy from
polished grey metal...
and himself laid rest:
among the sneezing myopic worms
to never be clarified by moth or butter-winged;
so persistent is this cultural constipation
that it's hard making a footprint
on uncharted land, worth the cool...
and of those places where culture stomped
as a fascist brute...
so much for culture,
that there's this backlog of people expressing
culture, with so many people willing to forget it...
without a genetic preordinance:
try telling your mechanic father, or plumber
that you're an artist...
ah **** it... let's end this poem like
a scene from a gang-****...
ugly... ugly...
egalitarian... but nonetheless ugly....
i have a museum's worth of
****... and that really is: the prognosis
for the next 100 years,
or what's called: undistrubed peace,
or a piecing together of organising the next
propaganda umbrella, worthy of the noun: zeitgeist.
