They are holding
your pale wrists
tight.

Said rat to the rat:
"I wanna be cat,
I'm fed up with being a rat,
I am more than that".
But rat replied:
You better shut
up, you nut.

Running away from the barbaric land,
where eye-for-an-eye is the only law.
Running awayfrom the blind hatred of its people,
from my own home, which has been besieged.

Fleeing the wars and heartless bombs,
hollowed eyes and kidnapped souls.
Runnig away from prophets and preachers.
From life after life and death before death.

Sometimes I wish
I was never born,
but, well,
I somehow was.
So help me out
and build me house,
if you wanna stay in yours.

After work
I usually go home
to rest my body in a motionlessness.

I'm watching tv
and think how fortunate I am to not to be on the screen. And that this world
is a sad place to be, for you don't suffer yourself anymore,
and you don't suffer seeing others suffering,
doomed to emotionlessness of Twenty First Century.

After work
I'm watching ****. That is my way to bring my dead body to life,
like electric shock for someone who died.
Don't blame me for that.
We all have our own way to survive another day in "paradise".

I'm watching
bodies ******* bodies, and I forget for a while, that I am nobody,
and that body
is all what remained from soul,
and that *******
is all what remained from love.

And that all we've managed to save from the End
is naked certainty that there's no God left,
only us, only our bodies,
craving to be alive and copulate.

I hope that is what you wanted to hear.

I will come back to the place someone else
once used to call home.

My eyes will kiss again the flame-rotten moths -
it will be a pleasure
to see them escaping their unknown fate,
at last.

I will pray to the sun again,
when my time comes. There will be no one pushing us
to the oblivion of tomorrow.

Rivers run,
and I let them take me with them
to the ocean. 

 Poets write,
and I follow their thoughts,
for they know the way out of the darkness.

Flowers bloom,
and I sigh along, escaping for a second
 the cold hands of death.

The stars shine; they offer their light as a warm shelter
for my frightened eyes. 

Painters paint, and my invisible hands are holding 
an invisible chisel.
Only the colours can tell our
stories.

Birds fly,
and I am holding on to their
feathers; they lose them sometimes, but never on purpose. 
 
Death takes,
and I don't try to stop her from taking,
for she turns back the hands of time. And it means
my salvation.

Someone
has robbed me yesterday,
has stolen my dream
of living in a world
where nothing is fake.

And I can see him,
he is everywhere,
all over the papers,
on the Internet.

I recognize
his innocent face.

James Bond is cool
but I'm not sure
the armed guy should be the one
to rule,
to save a belle
from hell.

A man with a gun - it could be anyone,
not only Bond.
But guns are wrong,
and we all know, it won't
make world a better place, oh no.
Violence is not the way.

I'd like to see Prince William as James Bond,
with bunch of flowers in his hands,
instead of gun.
That would be fun.

And Duchess Kate
as real Bond's girl,
always a smile away from her man.

That would be great.

Sadly not, I won't be here tomorrow,
I'll be somewhere else, someone else.
though I'm not talking about different life,
and I'm not talking about same old death.

I am talking about time that is timeless.
I am talking about placeless place.
About some kind of Hell-free Heaven,
some kind of greener grass Universe.

I'm not talking about having a choice,
or some signs of hope that'd be showing,
but about clocks like broken toys,
and maps like some nursery drawings.

I am packing my stuff - it's not easy:
been unpacking things my whole life.
Feels like turning the course of dry river,
or the blood painted hands of  time.

**** the happiness, **** the sorrow,
no more heartful and dreadful a-roving.
Blind man's shadow - my guide I will follow.
Only future me knows where I'm going.

You say they're killing, they're drilling,
they're willing to steal it,
they're ******, they're blanking,
they're laughing, they're faking,
they're making a fool out of you and of me.

Are you saint then? You say that the satan has changed them
and you cast them with stones and you break their bones,
for they are digging graves, and they smile, laugh and they
when they're burying them alive and listening to their cry,
as it turns into howl and then turns into silence
and when the job is done, they're spitting on heir graves.
But you, are you saint then? Are you better than them,
would you be the one who would say no when asked
to say yes?

Would you hold your head high and be happy to die
for the truth and the freedom and justice?

Are you saint then? Why now
you won't blame anyone? Taking back what you've said,
chickening out.

At night,
when all sounds of life disperse
in universe of silence, in the distance I can hear
arising, painful scream of the earth,
like a howl of a pregnant woman
whose baby is being cut from her womb.
Unbearable howl.

It gradually dies
with the first ray of the morning light,
with an airplane engine through the sky,
with noise of cars, people's rushing steps in the street,
happily singing birds, and pop music
from a window.

*** on the moon,
that would be fun,
sweet *** with you
on the yellow couch,
in a slow motion,
with a low gravity.
Without witnesses
and peeping eyes
of people and gods.
No hassle, no rush,
no stress, no worrying
about world outside,
but your eyes, your lips, you *******
and your arrow of light.

*** on the moon,
free of accusations
of sinful deeds,
free of observation.
Not tricked into religion
and society.
Not driven by money
and selfishness.
Not reduced to copulation,
not filmed by **** camera,
not watched by Big Brother,
not registered on CCTV,
not overheard by neighbours
or passerbyes,
superintimate moment
in an endless time.

I don't touch ****,
once touched, it stinks
way more.

I don't touch ****,
I flush it,
quick.
My world and worlds around my world
smell nicer then.

I read newspapers, watch tv
and think:
I won't touch ****. Oh no,
once touched it'll stink
way more and more. And more.

Art hates fame
and flashing lights,
public places,
great gigs in the skies.

Art hates those
which watch her constantly,
she hides in blind eyes
and let them see.

She hates wisdom,
prophets and preachers,
she's a friend
of truth seekers.

She doesn't pay
for those who believe in her,
but give them instead
sense of existence.

Skyscrapers look at them from above,
the man-made devils and the man-served Gods.

Dots in the streets - they have turned into ants,
they will not know that they've lived or died.

Skyscrapers shelter their deepest fears,
their human feelings, erased, strangled, killed.

They make *** only to get rid of lust.
They don't think of the future, they don't know the past.

This big city mess - their holy mass.
The ants will vanished, skyscrapers will last.

They hold me tight,
they kiss my lips,
my eyes.

When it's time to wake up
they say: "Don't worry,
stay in bed.
Keep dreaming,
keep dreaming,
don't let anyone wake you up."

I love my life - I would lie if I said
I don’t, but then there is a speck of doubt
like rats infesting my life-loving head,
telling me that we live in a slaughterhouse.

Maybe that's truth, but then would my despair
would bring the solace to my fragile mind?
Would I gain more from breeding heartless hate?
Would I see more If I went - by force - blind?

The butcher’s wait is over, he needs blood.
The rats are hungry - their teeth are sharp.
And there is me - small ship dodging the flood

of angry red. There is my broken harp.
There is me singing a life-affirming verse.
And there is Justice of the Universe.

Smile to yourself,
don't smile to others,
apart from children,
smile to them,
for they will appreciate it
and understand.
But don't smile to their mothers and fathers.
They will think you are weird.

Don't smile to strangers,
they will ignore you,
or will take it as your weakness
and will dare to approach you
and ask for money or a cigarette.

Smile to yourself,
to the face in the mirror,
you will feel safe,
you will feel like a winner!

The body, a sumptous villain, has parted me,
or perhaps it was me who has detached.
I don't know. I have no taste of good and bad anymore.

But it doesn't matter. It has happened,
we are not the same. We never were.
We have been keeping together only out of fear.

The most important thing is
that I have made my decision: I will stay strong.
It will be hard to go through it all alone. I know.
But the light has to be sheltered
from the slightest gust of air.
Nothing else matters.

Two homeless in Dyatt Street
they asked me for money,
I said Sorry and wanted to leave,
but they stood in front of me,
I said: I don't know you. And they asked:
So who do you know?
I said nothing. I knew that might be it.

And I wanted to leave, I wanted them to let me go.
But I wasn't scared, no, I wasn't scared,
and they felt it, like dogs feel human's fear.

It was a one of a dark, narrow London streets,
evening, September 26th,
somehow no one was around.
They cornered me, and they could have done with me
anything they wanted. I heard them saying to each other:
Shall we **** this boy?

But they let me go,
they somehow let me go. Strange.
Maybe 'cause I wasn't scared of death,
'cause I was, kinda, one of them,
homeless, in a way,
someone who went through life's hell,
but not showing it, staying strong, brave,
hiding my secrets deep inside.
Maybe they realised
that I am one of them.

They let me go, ashamed.

Sperms, washed up by the tide, dies on the Australian coast.
Their heavy bodies hardly breath.
People try to help, water them,
waiting for the turning tide which could save the sperms.
But it comes too late.

The ocean takes sperms, already dead,
and people come back home, sad.

Today, they will eat dinner in silence,
but by tomorrow they'll forget,
and will happily surf the waves.

Spotkania o pracę,
na które nie przyszedłem,
było ich trochę.

Mówiłem: Tak, tak,
przyjdę, jutro o dziewiątej,
sto procent.
I nie poszedłem. Jaka szkoda!

Byłem gotowy wieczorem,
wcześnie poszedłem spać,
by wstać świeży.
Ale nie wstałem na czas.
I nawet teraz, gdy o tym mówię,
wciąż trudno mi w to uwierzyć.

Puste było krzesło
w biurze, gdzie już na mnie czekał
manager,
ubrany w garnitur,
z papierami do wypełnienia.
Wciąż tam czekają
na podpisanie,
nie wiedząc, że nigdy nie będą przeze mnie
podpisane.

Wciąż tam siedzi,
manager, którego nigdy nie miałem przyjemności spotkać
i uścisnąć jego dłoni,
wymienić uśmiechów.

Spotkania o pracę, na które nie poszedłem,
bo były albo za wcześnie,
albo za późno.
Ominąłem mój los.
Taki widać los.

Sitting in Starbucks
drinking sweet coffee from Christmas red cap.
Not many people inside. Table for two, me and I,
music in background, quite nice,
at least I don't mind, but who does mind
anything,
when festive time has just arrived?

Enjoy your coffee, my friend,
but in the meantime, have a look outside
the window,
at rough sleepers and their hands,
open and empty.
This year
Christmas came early again.

Stars know
that you are beautiful.
And they know
that my heart is in bloom.

Stars are happy to die
for our wish come true.

They know they won't die,
they will always live
in me and you.

When they closed down Heaven,
St Peter lost his job,
you would see him in the queue to Job Center,
you would see him drinking alone.

He was angry with the decision:
- They shut Heaven, why they don't shut Hell?!
Maybe they have work for me down there,
maybe I should go and check.

When he knocked to the Satan's door,
they opened and a man dressed in black
said: My Lord is busy at the moment,
please come back later, or don't come back.

He came back few ours later, knocked again,
and the same strange man opened the gate:
My Lord is still busy, I'm afraid,
can you please come back tomorrow?
-Okay.

So he came back the next day, the door opened
and the same guy appeared before his eyes,
he said: Ah, it's you again, - Well, yes,
you said to come another time.

He said: I want to speak to Satan,
as I'm desperately looking for a job.
He didn't tell him who he was,
but they knew him well in the Kingdom of Gore.

Please, come later - the man said and left,
but St Peter has had enough.
- Oh don't worry you *******,
I'm fed up, I'm not coming back.

When they closed down Heaven,
St Peter lost his job,
you would see him in the queue to Job Center,
you would see him drinking alone.

Peter went off the rails, became an outlaw,
and no one called him Saint anymore,
he hit the bottom, he was a pure evil
killing men for cash and for gold.

And one day he said to himself:
I will try the Hell one more time,
maybe now they will let me in,
when I lost my all inner light.

So he went to meet Holy Satan
one more time and vowed - one last time.
Knocked the door and the same man appeared,
said: Come in, you are welcome now.

You thought you were strong,
and look at you now,
lying on the floor,
yelling at the sky.

No one will come to help,
you kick them all out,
warned that you'd ****
if they dare to come back.

You laughed when they left,
now silence laughs at you,
and your body, like a shadow
in the empty room.

There's nobody to save you
nobody to help you out,
not even to pass you a rope,
a gun, a glass, or a knife.

You thought you were strong,
now you know your strenght,
lying on the floor,
waiting for - the end.

They say:
"Get a different style every day".
They want you to become
a mannequin of the year.
They want you
to become one of them.
More they recruit, less sad they will feel
being mannequins.
More people join them,
better excuse they will have.

Don't listen to them,
it's mannequin talk,
it's a sad, fake life mannequin way.

Listen
to yourself.
Don't change.

The sun is out, the sky is blue,
but Summer, Summer, oh, where are you?

Girls are wearing light dresses, they are see-through,
in a busy gardens flowers shine and bloom,
but Summer, Summer, oh, where are you?

Elderly men are sitting in the park,
secretly watching women walking by,
drinking their coffees, so ready to die.

Children are enjoying sunshine,
jumping and dancing in the square,
but Summer, Summer, oh where are you,
where?

Sunday morning.
A fragrant storm  
in a coffee cup.

The quietness of this morning:
I am happy - at last.
They wonder if Heaven exists,
I have the proof that it does.

Undisturbed by the neighbours,
their children and their cars.
Silent, angel-like halo
of the sky-growing sun.

Maybe I'm only dreaming,
maybe I'm still in the sleep
and  I'll wake up to screaming
of angry man in the street.

So let me enjoy this moment,
even if it's just a dream.
Today I'm not going to church,
the church has just come to me.

Everyone,
everything
looks suspicious
to me.

Table for one, but it's okay,
I'm used to talk long hours with myself,
and many problems we solved, believe me or not,
many lives we saved, many wars we stopped.
Definitely more than those sitting by the table for two or for four.

Table for one, well,
It wasn't that hard like it might seem to be.
I acted so humble and he was understanding,
no shouting, no fights, no arguments,
no waste of time, no braging off and no proving
who's better. Just relaxed discussion, quiet eye in eye
- no eye for an eye, like barbarians do.
No unconditional hatred and no blood,
just silence, with short breaks for an open talk.
A monologue turning softly into dialogue.

I couldn't hurt him for he was myself,
like my best friend, my mother, son,
or even more than that!

Table for one,
now many want to join
to sit by and discuss the world's issues,
how to live in Peace with each other, and stuff.

Table for one, it's completely fine.
I'm used to sit at it and eat and read and sleep and cry.
Since the day I was born, that was entirely choice of mine.
I'm not saying I will save the world,
but I will try our best, I mean we will try.

They ear you
but
they don't hear you.
That's the
problem, Mr Teacher.

I am the best thing
that has ever happened to

me.

It was sad to see this city lights faded, believed to be neverfading.
It was sad to say goodbye to them, leaving the city,
darkness-blind, looking for roads and ways out.
Soon other cities and towns around got covered by black coat,
it was like a domino effect – everything just got shut down,
and there was no horizon to reach by eyes,
only moon and stars – their lights were dim too.

I stucked in the dark middle of nowhere,
I heard people’s voices in the far calling me out,
but I was beyond the reach and so did they.
I was waiting for a miracle, but soon realized
that miracles don't like us to just wait on them,
they need our help to happen.

After a while I started looking for a lighter.
I found one and lit it up, and I saw
other flickering lights in some distance from here – dispersed.

I decided to follow them and they started to follow each other,
tiny flames were getting closer each other – gathering,
til they created a big bright spot, it became bigger and brighter,
turning the city into a light again.

It's easy to follow
a crowd,
much harder
to follow your
heart.

It's easy
to put a mask on
and be the one that you're not.
Way harder is
to show face,
while being something against.  

Fireworks
lit up bonfire night,
but morning
sees them burnt out.

He died in a sleep, yesterday morning,
unnoticed, without a warning,
quiet, like people die.

Now he doesn't need their spare change,
he doesn't need their promises
to sort this problem out
before 2025.

He doesn't need you now, London,
like you never needed him,
he won't bother you anymore,
you won't hear him again saying Please.

He doesn't need you, Westminster,
death solved his problems, not you.

He passed away in his sleep,
he now lies in a warm bed, smiling,
and angels bring him hot food.

But, he wasn't the first and the last,
there's many more out there in the cold

and every death of a homeless
is a little death of our Free World.


The poem was written after learning about the death of a homeless man in the tunnel near Westminster tube station in London.

He acted like Prince.
He knew that it doesn't take much
to have them on their knees,
blind.

People, when given a choice,
make always the easiest one.

Now he's dead,
they're crying for him.
I'm crying for
them.

The gallery is closing soon,
hurry up,
don't say you will come
another time.

I bet you want to see "Sunflowers".
You say you can wait.

You can? Okay, but
what if they can't?

The hand
which plucked the flower,
will wilt too.

They have children,
they have homes,
they have money,
they have jobs,
they have good cars,
and many more things they want to have.

I have paper and pen,
I have my poems,
that's enough.

The motto
of one of the Inquisitors of The Church was:

"We would gladly burn a hundred,
if just one of them is guilty".

Sounds familiar?

There's a country where live
people who don't have their own place.
They travelled the world and never reached
their destination.

They were exiled, misplaced, not admitted
anywhere, drowned in their tiny boats,
shot by steel hearted guards.

There's a country, no one knows about,
like an island somewhere
in the middle of ocean,
yet never found.

Nothing is strange about this country,
except that it exists.

We all one day will arrive there,
it's the matter of time.

This town,
where the old church sings
the song of silence.
Where the houses
have a familiar light in the windows.
This town was mine, a while back -
for a while.

Then she came,
in her black dressing gown,
and said to this town "goodbye"
on my behalf.

What a *****!

They've sold us ******* at a reduced price,
it was so cheap and hard not to buy.
Like a scrappy burger from a fastfood shop,
cheapest burger in town, you just can't say no.

They've sold us ******* about democracy,
bright future, freedom and prosperity.
About the new chapter in our poor lives.
They've sold us 'good news' - the big pile of lies.

They said "Just wait and you will see
what a great country we all live in".
When the voting time came, they beg "Vote for us!",
then they turned Parliament into a comedy club.

Now we are standing on the bus station
waiting for a bus, which is on diversion.
They apologise for the inconvenience,
promising that it will come, it's just been delayed.

But the bus is not coming, we keep freezing on,
knowing too well by now, that it'll never come.
"Can you, by any chance, get a replacement bus?!"
They can't, 'cause nobody longer cares about us.

They've sold us ******* at a reduced price,
it was so cheap and hard not to buy.
Like a scrappy burger from a fastfood shop,
cheapest burger in town, you just can't say no.

This moment will be gone,
before I blink my eyes.
I'll take this moment with me
to  the grave, the paradise.

I'll cherish it like my baby,
I'll sing it like a song.
And you can call me crazy,
I'll stand by it proud and strong.

Oh, ditching it in the past
much easier would be, no?
But I will make it last,
I will not let it go!

This moment, one of a kind,
it'll never happen again.
Against the odds of time,
timeless it will remain.

Three middle-aged men
had told a ******* the train to shut up.

She wasn't even loud,
they were much louder than her.

When she got off at the next stop,
she friendly waved at them.

She won,
she beautifully won
that old, ***** game,
played on the train
by the three middle-aged men.

You won't understand
how it feels
to love.

You never loved,
you only calculate,
you only think.
You are never
on the brink. You never feel.

You won't understand how it is,
how man turns blind and then
how blind man turns man who can see.
You never felt this way,
you only think, and look
and calculate

what is good for you,
what is bad,
what is to remember,
what is to forget.

I hate you
for hating me,
I hope one day you will learn
and you will feel
how it is like
to love. One day
you will shed a tear, I hope. I bet.
Then you will speak to me,
you will look at me differently,
you will remember my name.

I'm sorry for you sometimes,
it must be sad
to separate the light from shadow
and shadow from the light
with one simple cut, one look
of the cold eyes.

You are never sorry for me,
but
I'm sorry for you sometimes.

Love doesn't exist,
until it comes.
Then is too late
to take anything back.

Too late
to leave the home
and hide
under the stone.