Only for you did I wander around on water. Now it’s worms, black birds. Voices. Someone is calling me… Something on the floor. Illuminations…
Circulation of atoms.
I am breathing. Reopening old wounds in Elbastreet. And you are making love to someone else.
I cannot leave your body. I shoot up to find myself there again. No vision. Blood. Zen proved no use. There is nobody there.
I thought I would meet you. Strange mammals… Glued to one another.
Shivers, vomiting… I am mere biology on its way out. Your earthly shell was delicate and velvety. The hum of galaxies…The only one.
Who are you spending your nights with now? I can see you again, Elba’s swirling, I can hear something behind the wall.
First voice: Shoot up again.
Second voice: Kill yourself.
I was attacked by a crossbreed of a cat and a dog. An unknown species.
I had never made love to someone like you. The scent of your body, its wavering, I shoot up again, plunge into the pit. A cosmic jelly.
Get a grip. No one is irreplaceable.
There is no terrorism.
There are no exclusive rights to bodies. There is no Derrida. There is only the empty galaxy.
Awakening. A new vision. Now you’re fucking someone well-combed.
Vesterbro. I go to get drugs. Carina from Finland. On Methadone. A wrinkled face.
And a giant dog beside her. But we were to have a house full of cats, remember? We were to go to New York together, to see Warhol. Does this well-combed male love you?
Come to me, come to me – I hear a voice. Someone is calling me.
An old man with a bird is calling me. DeLillo.
Names. You bought me a Szapocznikow album as a farewell gift. Wax faces.
I take an Oxazepam before shooting up again.
A letter from a good girl. I cannot react. I am all in you.
I cannot see people. I left everything inside of you. There is no one here. Shadows?
I’m losing sense of time. How many hours have elapsed: 10, 15?
believe in yourself, love yourself, and only then will you find happiness. What bullshit. Stop being a terrorist. You cannot own somebody!
The same crossbreed of a cat and a dog again.
Carina tells me about Jesus and the Witnesses. She brought me two glass goblets. (Szapocznikow reminded me of you. The same striking force.) I drift into sleep. I can see us together. A meadow… And then I can see the male touching you.
A cosmic silence on Elbastreet. I’m losing sense of time again, how much time has elapsed?
What insects have been crawling over me? There’s a bite on my hand. Pains. They can be mastered. I feel my body is getting torn to shreds.
People, shit… Advice, be yourself. Paint your pictures. My painting is calligraphy. For her. Alechinsky was a decent man, did not resort to drugs.
Hashish and coke. And the mother ship – heroin. Syringes. Death. Skeletons smiling at me.
Here nobody accepts anybody, the struggle for survival goes on. The struggle for money and drugs.
The 5A bus. I go back to Elba. I lie down in my coffin. It’s snowing in your city.
Your hair is full of snow. I lick it up. And then we make love.
My hands and legs go numb. They feel amputated. Sleep. Worms. Amnesia.
A black-winged angel: Come to me, you’re in too much pain… Symbolism!
Atoms have not invented anything new. Crawlers.
Maintaining vertical position. I stopped leaving bed.
I get a call from an acquaintance, Mr. Loo. I tell him about my dreams. Scared, he sets down the receiver. Nobody wants to be a witness. Adam’s apple. I’m waiting for your letter. Like a fool I keep believing we’ll meet someday. Mr. Loo told me to love myself and then everything will change.
There are many possibilities. Nothing but choices. Buddhism and smuggling. Baked zucchini instead of chicken… Alexander Kluge and Gerhard Richter, December.
There is the road to hell. A certain Warsaw cat’s name is Mordor. This is actually my name.
Getting clean is the worst thing. I can see you again. Velvet. Flowers on a Neanderthal’s grave. The only body I had really made love to. Our conversation. Alina again. Thanks to you Gierymski’s paintings finally got through to me. Jewess with Oranges. I could never get Malczewski, and you would laugh that I was obsessed with Polish symbolism.
Behind the walls The Doors and “Love Me Two Times.” It can’t get any better! Love me two times… Right away I think about the punk song Too drunk to fuck.
I hit Adam’s apple. A wave. Blood pressure. A shot.
How many hours? What has been going on in the world? Has China invaded Japan?
Wet body. Who is going to cremate it? There is no zen.
There are only bodies, sickly loving each other, shells.
My skin comes off. Underneath it – red meat.
Mike Topp and his ingenious book Sasquatch Stories:
Two glasses of orange juice contain more Vitamin C than one glass of orange juice.
This poem welcomes me on a new day. I think it is January 2013, that’s all I know.
I open my mailbox. A message from you. I glue my face to the screen.
The message is dry and matter-of-factly. You have not blocked your address yet. This is our last line, our last connection… Everything fades away.
A handful of pills, Oxazepam and the brown Truxal. To avoid losing your mind already in the morning. Truxal:
Principal indications are the treatment of psychotic disorders and of acute mania occurring as part of bipolar disorders…
Substitute. The whole life is just pretending, nothing but substitutes.
What is Carlos doing in prison these days? The circumstances have changed. RAF is no longer there.
There is no Marx.
Has Marx survived only in Cuba? Hours with terrorists. I cannot get rid of Che. Fuck them! The last people left are breaking up with me. Even old poets. They stick to the rules. You have to be clean. I only have Marcus in London. But that’s beyond the seven seas.
I don’t know how to masturbate anymore, I cannot conjure you up. I kept my body only for you. Naïveté. How could I have trusted you? Long-distance love? A monastery?
The needle’s smile. You cannot own anybody, the old slogan. After many days, a newspaper. The usual stuff: The pope condemns homosexuals, France sent fighter planes to Mali, a pit bull bit a three-year old child… A woman gave birth on a plane.
Suzuki, An Introduction to Zen Buddhism. You did not believe in anything. You were right. The galaxies are empty. The only meaning of life is the meeting with an Alien. With another mind. With a mammal who will caress you.
A call from Martin, have I heard about the submarine Scorpion that went down in 1968 with 99 people on board, etc. No I haven’t. I don’t know why he’s telling me about it. I become obsessively suspicious. I try hashish to see if it works. No effect. Only a fast heartbeat. I lost the feeling for cannabis, I used to enjoy it. Now it’s only worms. Nothing works except dirt…
Obviously, the Witnesses appear. Perfect timing, as ever! Everything alive has forsaken me. Everything but Jesus. I should trust the Lord. Pray in the morning and in the evening. How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity! There are pictures and books lying on the floor. Two handsome women. One of them picks up from the floor Poemas, the book that Marcus
Slease gave to me in Warsaw’s restaurant Lotos. Cesar Vallejo… Is this what you believe in?, the activist asks me. Peace, the wasp, the heel, the slopes…
They leave some colourful brochures. You must look for God, they tell me as they leave.
Seynt Thomas honour we,
Thorgh whos blod Holy Chyrch ys made fre.
I only believed in you. My fucking loyalty. Idiocy. Long-distance love? This project could not have worked. A male should guard his female.
Voice: Time for flame and spoon. Then you’ll feel better. Time to leave.
I managed to have a look at my latest painting, Blue Pueblo, and then fell into a coma.
Same old story. Shivers. A pierced Adam’s apple. An album you gave me, the Beatles’ Revolver.
A meme on facebook: If someone hates you for no reason, give that motherfucker a reason.
A girl, a perfect stranger, wrote me. Exchange of information, stimulations, the same definition again – substitutes. Kluge and Richter did the best collaborative action. Their December is a masterpiece.
Red water. Vomiting. I am alive! I crawl through the floor to my bed. I place Blue Pueblo in such a position so I can see it all the time. It is my blue composition with rough calligraphy. Acrylic and tusche.
I know that this very moment you are copulating with the well-combed guy. My hair fell out a long time ago. No, it’s not about the size, it’s about this fucking feeling.
I am too old to meet you when you get old. I wish we were already old. Every one of us. But here gangnam style is all the rage.
Carina comes to see me. We are listening to The Fall and Deuter. In Amazonia there are women that resemble you. I will look out there. Or in Limpopo… Up the river.
Perfect material for the valiant Witnesses. A male wriggling in the throes of heroin. Human trash. And my new book is called Gender and is about projections. About hopeless fights between sexes. It has not been published yet but is being attacked already.
Gangnam. Blue Pueblo. Torso. Heart. Sperm. Whatever happened to my sperm? Kill yourself. What is she doing now?
I know that Marcus Slease’s poetry will last. He is a nomadic, ingenious poet. Smashing Time!
I rock to and through like a special child, is that what they used to call them back then in Poland?
Blood. Again. A cat? Whatever happened to our cats? Does your fucker think about them? Suddenly I can smell your scent. I am getting paranoid. I look for you.
Hum, walls, beetles…
Mr. Loo is calling me again. He tells me about, the revelatory, in his opinion, archeological discoveries. A million years ago there were already people in the isles. So what? I am not a continuation of the species. I am a mutant and a hybrid. I don’t care about Caligula. I don’t care about the Revolution.
I care about doctor marabut. A study of a horse for doctor marabut.
I can’t walk anymore. My legs have been affected again. Tell people to put some books into my coffin.
Mike Topp. How odd that he has not yet been translated into Polish.
Piotr Gwiazda’s new poems in the online magazine BODY. He is the author of, among other books, Gagarin Street. Poems about the Alien. I haven’t read anything quite like it since Burroughs. An awesome poet.
I’d love to hug a mammal. To touch something throbbing with life.
You’ve made your choice. I’ve lost. Another male has made it.
To forget. Deceive yourself. Andromeda. Only there will we meet.
At night Blue Pueblo changes. It comes alive. I can see Somebody there. Hallucinations.
Prophets. The end. They’re injecting it into my body again. I am not at home in myself. There is no
ME. The ‘I’ does not exist.
I knew only you. I am lying next to a huge dog. I fall asleep, I wake up… Hair. Lipstick. Someone pours wine in my mouth.
Have I been a weak person? Why have I ended up like this?
You will never wake up again. Lethargy. You’ll remain in this state. Who tried it once… I would like to go into LSD. Maybe I would see you there. Acid. Loss of senses.
Do not mix drugs, it’s a rule, a principle, part of the rules and regulations.
Have you been a domineering human being? Velvet. You were soft. Strong and soft.
I can feel you near. We used to walk these streets. Copenhagen is full of you.
This world is permeated with you. Amagerbrogade… Our beach, Amager Strand.
I go back to Elba. The Clash, Joe Strummer… And then my fellow countryman, Grzesiuk:
I’m waiting by the gate, come out my lovely maid!
Some unknown telephone numbers and addresses in my pocket. What am I getting myself into? I’ve got my stuff. They finally caught him on December 13…
I call several people. I want to let them know I’m still alive. I read the press quickly, remembering one sentence: Technology might change but human nature remains the same. It stays in my head.
Bells again. I can hear distant bells. A sonic hallucination. And a change.
A clarinet? I feel as if I knew this tune. And then there’s only Sandinista! I wish they played Hitsville U.K. at my funeral. Will anyone notice if I die in Elbastreet?
This time I try my right arm. I succeed. Fire. Hell.
Something comes out of the painting. It shines. Sleep.
The cat-dog jumps up on my neck and licks me. A wonderful feeling. I enter Blue Pueblo. I become its citizen. Somebody offers me chili. A burning sensation in my throat. I dance with a beautiful woman. She tells me to quickly forget you and sleep with her. An erection… A witch? We make love in a wild, inhuman way. We tear out each other’s hair, enter each other incessantly. Cries, wheezing, spit, blood. An illusion. Bad karma. Trip.
You left me alone on the fucking frontline. I’ve become a lost Warrior. Guns of Brixton.
I miss cuddling in with you. A deep, strong cuddling.
Plaza Joe Strummer to be opened in Granada following online petition. To reach this place! Strummer has always been my kindred soul. I listened to him in critical moments.
Clarity. I put away the syringe, cold turkey. I’m jumping and charging at the walls. Drinking Tropicana juice.
My bandaged neck. I know it’s the end, that I’ve lost you irretrievably. The Amazon.
To go towards the forest and the river. To look for people there. To look for a star. Until the definitive journey begins.
Translated from the Polish by Adam Zdrodowski