it’s been foggy for the past two days,
i blamed fireworks on halloween
rather than guy fawkes’ celebration to
burn the magna carta... i still prefer the beltane
festival of burning rubber skin tires of pensioners
extending for a plastic surgeon’s career;
it was foggy these two past years,
i can almost start an art movement or set-up an art school
ensuring all paintings are painted with fog-overtones,
as i blow cigarette smoke into the air...
but this is the zenith of autumn,
the earth has started to breathe, the muddy field soil
has started to turn into mush, to mush,
it’s begging the plughole sepias of a hectare into easing into
moisture so the boots land a footprint into flemish tired in the trenches
for the toilet plop...i’ll dismember onomatopoeia spelling
and retrace the origins of dyslexia... i will!
insert this anti-intellectualism of england laughing at the words
sartre and *****... piston... etc.,
then become content with en masse surveillance.. everyone’s happy!
win win situation!
he he he... giggles for rounds of ***** shots and double-glazing...
keep the van gogh canvases... we need pristine voyeurism sights
across the street and never bothering to chip in to the gallery funds.
it’s autumn at its zenith with two foggy nests of the moon exposed
and i’m forcing cigarette smoke into the air to match up...
i’ve heard news that a lady psychologist and a professor are interested
in my works... back home in poland,
they are announcing a secret reading of my work
in the underground chambers of a church in szewna, akin me to a gombrowicz,
i’m about to become a merchant of poetry.... here’s cinnamon for words,
here’s chilli for specified terms that tingle the tongue.
back home i can reclaim this misunderstanding of all necessary jokes
in england...
so this article comes along... stresses the difference between england and france...
the difference?
in england: a. i’m trying to write a book... b. how much money did you get upfront?
typical of bank of england signatures being given with a safe investment...
in france? a. i’m writing a book... b. what’s it about?
that’s europe, cross-continental, with the isolationism of england
like the isolationism of england if f.d.r. was the prime minister
and everyone spoke gaelic, so there...
frogs are princes... with such cares the article mentioned...
it mentioned rousseau as the joker card of blames
for the french revolution...
well i know that scientist is a misnomer of intellectual,
after all, the scientist is the man with a ruler and centimetre
and the intellectual doesn’t bother to count up the centimetres
of welsh words... but a scientist is hardly a cobbler...
so i give darwin... the english intellectual exploit surfacing as
the modus operandi of the holocaust...
‘it’s almost like a darwinian pact,’ said faust,
'i peered into the monkey and knew of the trouble it would translate,
this collective categorical translation that didn’t say:
orangutan is chinese and chimpanzee is greek, the gorilla is italian...
how the hell could we have evolved from the monkey
if there is no single species of monkey, we’re already as diverse
as the ****** monkeys! so a chimpanzee ****** a gorilla
and the first humanoid was spawned?' ******* you english colonial
******* and your limb-for-limb relativity, oh wait...
i’m writing in english... now isn’t that paradoxical...
but the f.d.r. akin isolationism craves for artists that not only perform
with their backup cognitive singers, i.e. song writers...
(like the song by vanessa paradis - joe le taxi -
being almost like ellie goulding's on my mind)...
how did it all become defaced with karaoke and a prenuptial of fame...
i just want the original rolling stones... i don’t want people turned
into adverts... i don’t want artists turned into slogan pushers...
i rather keep the kites of drugs.... i can’t do this... my heart’s broken,
but that's because the audience that's being sold
the art is too young to respect the go-along practice of drug use with the arts.

Automn opens her eyes ever so
Slightly; earth toned irises within
The green mirror of a summer
Dozing off, her awakening reflected

In human breath now visible upon  
Chilled evening air, and
Lovers' fingers seeking closer
Shelter within the shared

Pockets of each other.
You ask what the doctor said,
But I have sweeter fish to fry
Than worry; such sensations

As the way your skin is the
Softest I have ever felt against
My own surface of scars and hair,
And how I'm looking forward to

October auburns, bronzes, yellows
And sepias. All in contrast to the
Whites and magnolias of the
Winter that follows their blossom,

And the excuses the coldness
In their wake presents to lean
Closer. Huddle up. Warm hands
Under garments, share blankets

With the least innocent of
Intentions. I love the subzeros.
Frost. Goosebumps receding under
A kiss. And another. And another.

Water in my roots
And once again, my stems bleed me out of an aquamarine cyclone
Flying through every cloud, floating through the dopamine daydreams
manias and monotones
After a decade of droughts
I twirled in a tornado
While the demons ate my brain
So I designed a tavern
To lock myself in

Water in my roots
And once again, a blurred vision of ecstasy blinds my eyesight
Looking in opaque mirrors, pressing the pearls of the pendulum
sepias and saxophones
I danced through a hurricane
While the angels saved my torso
So I tore the broken chains
To let myself out

My mother forgot to put a varnish on me / when she made me / I can imagine how vivid I’d be / if way back when I was eight / I’d noticed that sepias weren’t the right colors / on a child’s mind //

Now I’m slamming into sixteen / the way an addict is supposed to hit a wall / no longer sliding into the high / but scratching at the furthest point / sometimes the sadness has nowhere to go / and it just ripples along each nerve / from the inside out //

Like today / I sat for five hours for an exam / to qualify for things I don’t want to do / in support of institutions that make me sick / and the only movement was my pencil / the rest of my blood stopped flowing / and I got so cold / like today I sat with something in my throat / and just my arms shaking / while my mother told me about  boy strung up on barb wire fencing //

But both of those things still pull at the bone on my back / where wings could be / where I could have found happiness if I’d just tried / the way a body feels with the absence of heat / ******* out all the good things / I know lay under those clothes / and the way //

I count quarters every night / and sweat at the laundromat / I wish these things could be solved by just feeling about them / have you ever pushed your emotions because you knew you weren’t feeling them hard enough / so you asked your throat to constrict a little more / the fuzz of your tense shoulders to ride your skin a little more / it’s like if I pay attention to myself I can think with less clarity / and maybe if I push with my thumb on all the things that make me tick / I won’t tick anymore //