Write on. A cold writing.
Unutterably pale and desiccate.
Like a less than friendly dream, lunacy’s confidant.
Write on into the future, which has no gender or soul.
Driving through ashes. Through the dusk it crosses
with horrendous features, eyes of no colour.
Where a river runs trembling through dead quills.
The first and most vital function:
shave. Remove all stubble down to first
blood. Real desire for live touch.
The world as if the shaft of a three-dimensional
lift humming unknowing.
“Is immortality at all possible?”
So many chances that we will in the end show
what we are capable of. You’ve not looked this
good in years. In the mirror a litter of darkness
instead of a smile’s spark.
Do you remember the most well aimed sentence
of your life? In a line of wind powder
caresses rusted leaves. A letter
posted in a bottle did not reach your
hands. Whose eyes therefore cool
the eclipse of his signs? Things manifesting themselves
in a duel. They rock like the sun’s
stamp on a sky-blue vein.
Find the cause,
one for which I should now
The kingdom of frost caught leaves
The kingdom of frost caught leaves.
Immortal eyes, puncturing
the knocking on heaven’s depths.
like illusion. The whole square
clapping with the wings of doves.
Memory has fallen.
And histories too.
Does it not seem as if sin
has come up with a new trick?
The truth of others’ words.
Additions to notes by Marek Wittbrot
“If there is a city,
just a few streets or
a few places you
can call your own,
if there is one spot,
one path in a park,
wharf or deserted
morning alley, Curve street
or another, on which
we have come to live, not
seeming strange and if there
is something we want to love, in
which we find ourselves, do we
need words then, is it necessary
to talk about feelings of relief or
And if there is nothing, what
could we consider as our own?
If even our nearest, fullest
innards and simultaneous hollows,
the only place which seemed
home to us, turns out to be
an illusion, just another
desert, is there then all the less
need for silence, peace, solitude?”
In the snow
a crow is leaving dumb
The dusk of words unsoothed by the prayer
of animated lips. White spaces vanishing.
Mountains shrinking and seas evaporating.
The vortex of time absorbing mute tears.
Taken and translated from
(Wydawnictwo “Forma”, Szczecin- Bezrzecze 2010)
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