Four weeks ago, I took a plane from Stansted to Sopot. Shot three films, showed two at various festivals, corrected the translations of four books of poetry, even danced and drank and cried a couple of times.

Fot. Dominik Sadowski / Agencja Gazeta
But the moment I landed back in London, wasted and worn, just in time for the planned launch of our latest book at the Topolski Century this Thursday gone, glitches hit. Monday, two of the two artists due to fly and perform at the launch failed to catch that London-bound plane with me. Tuesday, after a whole day back in jail, my freshly serviced Guzzi broke down 20 miles from home. Wednesday, my flatmate’s childhood friend died and an instant wake had to be held. By the time Thursday came along, my batteries were the other side of empty.

Fot. Mariusz Smiejek / www.mariuszsmiejek.com
All my well-laid plans and best intentions, all the talent I had been sent here to show in the best light, dimmed. In front of forty or so guests, including people from the Polish Cultural Institute, BFI and the Topolski Century, I watch the evening come apart in my hands. The two documentaries I screen are both old and imperfect versions. The slideshow for Pawel Gawronski’s live set jams. I make semi-poetic excuses, cancel the live reading from the book and retreat to the Southbank Bar for cheap fags and dear booze.
Still, I seem to feel no pain or disgust. I realise I am happy, not because I am wasted or drunk or beyond lost, but because I am surrounded by people with enough heart and vision to see past my fuck-ups and recognise the artists behind it all – Anna, Andrea, Kate, Basia, Helena, Jose, Sam, Tomasz, Kinga, Pawel, Svetlana, Ryszard, Slawomir, Kajetan, Marceli, Alice, Justynka – you know who you are and why you saved that night…

Fot. Mariusz Smiejek / www.mariuszsmiejek.com
We dance in the streets, play Russian accents on the Tube, drink wine out of Coke bottles, fondle each other’s ears, then sit on my balcony until 3am, even though it is a school night, talking old, quantum and new loves.
Oh, and we managed to sell a box full of books too, which, at the end of the day, is icing…

Fot. Mariusz Smiejek / www.mariuszsmiejek.com
ps. The anthology, Free Over Blood, is going through final revisions and will be available just as soon as my heart stops hammering.
OFF_MAREK

It’s winter 1988. The first time I’m home alone
and scared of answering the phone. The model Spitfire
is still drying, its badly set undercarriage
doing the sideways splits. Outside the window, a snowy monument
- night, the lady of both tides. The silence
between rings is unbearable.
Twenty years on, I’m still scared of answering
the phone. Before me – an iron road, jaws
snapping, the whisper of grit, the squeal of sprockets,
waves of nausea. And love like overweight baggage,
like a vial of glue or green grease. Write it down:
inclined plane. Ten years earlier: unfortunate
drive up a ramp, a tiny skateboard wheel loose and the fall.
What an arena, dreams of fresh leaves on snow,
perfect surfaces of abandoned kites.
And also faith in the immortality of flesh and sudden silence
between rings. Diagnosis: cracked ankle
joint. Diagnosis: the hourglass smashed.