English poems

wtorek, 29 marca 2016


this injection in glaze. or the broken rest in the units
of light. It comes and cuts the stream of repetitions. cawing.
I go out of the frame by the bigger pain, spoiling the background,
this fictionalized. the meter is about the coming out, in déjà vu,

in bloodstained miles, through these plots - taken with the power
of weightlessness. don’t ask whether the body bears the stigmas
of recyclable materials. in the damaged cover on industrial line-
from the serum of my name – leaks, growing and glowing

within the interpretation of the choir - unwanted, denied to flaw or flash
the primeval, the gruesome truth? I’m late in clotting, sink in a rag. eager,
devout and keen in duty you are carefully removing the fingerprints
non promising? my nails and hair in utilization, the whole movement

in declination - in a shredder my lost application for restoration:
all setup in decay? lubricated with vaseline, quinine. the bruised
body is replaced with the colony of cyanosis. the fallow is wooded
by the self-judgmental felling. through the self- extermination
I insist in pressure on lips - starved from singing, and dominates

motto cursed, as a botulism, a weapon, a cosmetic. the process
of reconstruction it is continued. the last vibrations are smoothed,
are muted from the better rest. by the bullion of the light years
you won’t revive me, you won’t raise me - in the smoky glow

melted into lead I try to catch a hint of contrast. I lean. I bend
under angle of confessions, discolorations. as if, deep in the ground
this rasp of tools and cans, this rustling of the foil – the audience

is out and leaving –
the sign that something inside begins.

piątek, 12 kwietnia 2013


the music lesson

the arteries. these nuances of fear, as vibrating strings.
inside is human, the caricature of statue.
Stone, who doesn’t know the pain rolls unpredictably.

Flags flutter, in the background moved by blood, far from uterine.
normal prey-grub.
in a pocket Bible, the handbook of justification.

my friend, the finder that we are looking for is sitting under a tree.
sometimes as the historical figure or a fairy tale.
has Buddha's eyes to measure the peaks and valleys.

the tree belongs to the blocks, no less than to the Jurassic parks.
libraries can be similarly useful as a garbage dump.
viewpoint moves along the scale, as the octave
from the howl to the neigh. at the neck zipper goes in two,
to free the breath.

it can be - the losers are free. recorded on the carrier
with deeper amplitude. punctured under skin.
so, we can read each other.
and everything's fine - matches key, tempo, pulse.
in the harmonious pause – the finally released air.


About unity. extraordinary. irreversible

My hair in the distant of constellations
neglected so far in this tale,
light thickens the saliva, reed in the wind says
of silence. The ornamentation embedded in black
this lira as a tiara swinging in the run
staggered stopped
this glow, which moves the shadows
in the forest. The river weaves our spilled dawn
in breaths. In the studios on glass

this dance with pearly mist - my lover of summer
lightning, with the restored hope
in the reflection of ourselves – don’t split the speed,
don’t split the tact. Embraced - the ballad of longing,
as the shaking foam on faults with the flow. The eyes
at the closing time they go on circle. Here
is the power of moment. It ate anxiety and sleepy singing

smells and is loudly screaming

Floating Market

Who knows how many layers has a cloud
how many leaves must eat silkworm
to weave a dress with the color
of the past

In Shanghai towels are scented
I sail on the smoky lake
lotus blooms in my mouth
Who knows how many blades are growing
at the rice field
how many corners has quiet river

Flowers need to be sold
People close doors and windows
before a child with mobile stall
the heart doesn’t approach more
on the silken wings

Get up from your knees golden Sun
and you Moon drain your silver threads
shadows in the present – we must go fishing

This is the last poem written
before my fingers were cut off
lend me yours
so we can start from tomorrow
carry the eternal void

I pull the strings of light
sometimes I have a dream
the tips of hands grows back
with a basket of flowers
I go to the floating market
where women sell life

Near by the bamboo trees grow
I dry them and compose into bouquets
as souvenir
after this boy who kissed me on the neck

Buy white lotuses!
who is able to remove leaves from the forest
who knows
how many blades of rice growing in the field
how many layers has the cloud

and what kind of rain must fall
to full with tears - the river

poniedziałek, 08 kwietnia 2013


In the white gloves

Again, from the beginning, lunatic
I carry out the torn insides,
too many broken lines,
to lift up a hand luggage,
with the infusion of herbs and condolences,
reflected in mud - the plot.

Spot after the loss I hang up in the wardrobe
with naphthalene. I don’t know where I will set it,
maybe by this figure of Afflicted Mother,
going gray before the returning.

Look Mom, how nicely I arranged my toys:
shoes and glass balls in order Flat-squared.
Here, in the corner of lips is smile for flies,
for psychotherapist – the bottom of eye
and soda. I’m finishing interior work,
by waking up as developer,
without white flocks .

Now I swallow other powder,
in fast-increasing volume
space in memory,
I explain the absence of dead.
Their blind dog is still running after
and falls under the window as shadow
the incarnation of woman.

You look at me, my daughter, and wonder:
why am I so busy,
shifting springs for winters?
For disinfection, My Darling, because ice cuts
whole bloody filth.

And in my head, my head?!
Is too crowded,
there is no hole
where I could pour the poison.

Who will waive me half
of the poisoned apple?
A few seats in the sanatorium,
with rubber handles and soft clearance.
There, is waiting for me gift
wrapped in blue light,
toil of vigil with falling down
in the background.

I wake up – It’s really happening!
Tied up with empty hands I create -
street of many faces and more names:
I’m twisting, wriggling, crawling, gasping,
getting up, bite, repay, grow, bear a fruit, rotting.
Here, now, finally I can go to sleep
in the bed, that was kindly moved
as dream into a dream

under the glass floor
rat momentum,
red in rust.

środa, 07 marca 2012


White Apocalypse

This night will be swinging crystal chandelier
my earrings as commas in silence - thrill in cuts
long thunder will shake mountains and dreams
will turn over -  but we anxiously awake
with hand on pulse will change the trend.

Cool creatures from water will come to shine,
save immersed in fear, in trembling satellites
ground covered with frost and dusted pale sun
will stop frightened – when I will release past,
fumes over the moors and Niobe.

World will go crazy and we - relaxed – will rock up in arms
white orchard and dead birds in flight. Even submerged town
will be grateful for this kind of alchemy -  chaste traces
in free technique - on glass. Nothing will break
this dance or noisy atoms in close-up.

Cast in scene of extermination - in human-shaped cape
frayed at dusk over broken mirror of lake,
at the very moment -  I'll have your warm hands
the food for saints - a tale in veil - it smells as
romance in the immensity of dates

It will be very busy night,
Sirius will bring us into the gap
again at dawn – to multiply up.