8 poems
ruptures (medley)
and another line deprives access to the sea
we stand on the pier paralysed like all
those stories about a group of friends honouring
the final wish of one dead rolling through countries and bars
cross crossroads with the promise of ashes scattered along the coast
but once there can’t do anything other than turn circles
wandering is an aim in itself (when setting off on a
journey choose the furthest route) something constantly
piercing through out of the background like a wave function
explicitly describing the edges of body
sensitive like slabs dragged onto the surface of union
soon background noise will be betrayed by a new frequency
which will leave it all along with the tide
a may night
these days follow each other like minced
meat every set list revealing the decay
fireflies over the lakes millions of dead souls across
the marshes just the one explosion in the labs
residue in the narrow gullet of the woods blossoming
conflict between the locals and onslaughts of mist
who will cast the first stone who will swallow slime
call near animals who by hearing alone will read
the breakdown of systems as new tribes
won’t come won’t explain themselves
when the noise stops no
one will enter here again
closure
the swarm approaches the landscape lengthening birds
of coal mark the skies once again the soft city
glistening (only we are awake) earlier than usual deadening
the crowd’s pulse crocodile streets folk speak differently
when liquid changes the state of things in glassed-over
puddles dry water gurgles drips with anything close to hand
light diffracted in an altered skin floods
pavements empty parks squares reflections in traps
soon they will be free unable to grasp the traces dumb
topography like crows against snow connect only the points
a limited expanse the rest blurred
low overhead the abyss calling
coma contra amok
warning there is no such wave
p. kozioł
wet nuptials grey waves on the vistula bridges like
fingers against the river’s lips the river coursing permanently
changing people and things seen from shore
streets lit yellow finished off with shadows
and terror like a de chirico boxed in by sticky neons pictures
from childhood he remembers the escalator in the old town
the one they closed later but it stays glued in memory
in spite of the turmoil like a self-perpetuating dream
the escalator in the marriott the escalator in the bogusz
center the escalator as panorama and climbing the
floors the fountains dripping water pellets razor blades
in the pipes of water parks or the pizzeria where they handed out
balls with something resembling michael jordan’s hand print
you had to line up within what were then just freshly forming
structures which we now know so well as if there is construction
it’s equal to an act of religious observance (scrap) and possesses
something I would call the power of problematics
this keeps coming back this sense of the city
resting on cogs constantly churning its
position erasing the places which came into being
before the crest of the peak wave hit
year cycle
from the side of the race track you can’t see the cemeteries
only new tower blocks traps apparitions in drying bedsheets
by the ponds run-ups for divers bridges broken in half like
the warsaw ski jump and anyway you look suspect your head
is clearly cocked meaningfully in the direction of shadowy
trees the lay of the land is all wrong night windows of the top
floors gasps torn from clouds walls draped in graffiti mud shit
on the short-lived squares the patients you look suspect
you are the key to urban legends of the h. batuta murders
the daughter of stone his streets by land evening report
like in the cute squares of cute towns from tales for tots
in yearly cycles solstices into which you fall slowly when
you look well suspect cocking your head meaningfully
death took zdzisław for drawing her
the wincenty witos public park, bydgoszcz
we watched as they dug up the bones of soldiers from the russian
military graveyard by the young workers’ palace
this is how the park with the open air auditorium came into being
and where they once staged concerts for children
the locals still refer to it as the park of stiffs
kyrgyzstan
our children our ailments held with spit in the time of bells
our diary woven of daily spectres where foreigners press their
quicksilver into a hill of trash the radiation noted on a flag forty
historic tribes like the names of deadly substances
binding atoms with tents we gather the fragile hearts of light bulbs
like kindling and the bones of animals in layers of glass ground to fine
dust which dulls already active throats with the iron maiden
of curtains drawn to
differance. a poem for bryan ferry
sky blue plumes of gas the whole sorry mess in
places where fires started once you can see the scarring
the welded over eye holes traces of extinguished sparks in stuffy
dusks and basements something has started to breed in the soft bedding
something must be on the inside beneath these layers ceilings clinging
to the earth buildings sinking to the rhythm of tectonic plates
from the top of the mound we watch the motions invisible moves
of armed fauna in similar landscapes
how is it possible that the nibbled at bricks so firmly
shoulder the weight of a dozen floors along with people
the foundations must be buried deep somewhere near the core
all the underground rivers have been flooded over a region of hundreds
of thousands of kilometres concrete moss cities covered strife
real life life
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read the originals in Polish / English pdf version here
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what is the message of ruptures(medley)
what do this tells about?