Blackface, Le Chauchemar

Lyrics’ struggles do not die nor fear. In the Seine Church, I am crowned; Blackface with goat’s horn, the fantastic scene of a nightmare. Shoe polish, tailcoats, burnt cork, gloves, wigs, greasepaint and lipstick to exaggerate your beauty, the perfect foil for a barrow-man; an Abyssinian prince in revelry, goes happy-go-lucky and darky on the dandified racoon; the laughing face,Continue reading “Blackface, Le Chauchemar”

There are many ways to kill/Aditya is the name of her violence.

I wrote fun stories, I said I was Penny Dreadful from the further away. THAT leaves me here. Get down there, damn you Golden-Mouthed, perceptively moving lucidly mystical Assistant in the text. In a long, fluttering dress, he stirs the surface of a corrugated and cracked lava that covers the sandstone of Badiyat al-Iraq. HeContinue reading “There are many ways to kill/Aditya is the name of her violence.”

From the diary of a mad writer after…/ the shot

Soon it will all be over. Damn them, the reversed optics of my intracranial madness are picking up the pace. I am no longer a woman, but a macroscopic particle. A peg-top. Call me Peg-Top. This I will do so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand will not quake. I will lightly leanContinue reading “From the diary of a mad writer after…/ the shot”

Abortion poem

The storms lopped off that head of quiet cities giant waiting room and fog – braids always besides seeing a snake – pit crucified orchid looks like a uterus. along roadsides made of hot coals Do the trumpet of darkness hide love do music of the wind drinking wine do carelessly frog – brides castContinue reading “Abortion poem”

a kite, a sunflower

lurking around, ready to pounce swamps, billabongs, creeks, canine voices, the first whale and cosmic hieroglyphics in creamy emptiness reverberating riverbeds, and waterholes. I can’t I don’t know how it comes to… I can’ t, I can’ t, I can’ t, I can’ t, I can’ t I don’t know It’ s like… it’ sContinue reading “a kite, a sunflower”


In the beginning, I created two zeroes two zeros, they were, in the beginning at the beginning people fluttering vainly in my ringing words in the belly I screwed up, yet again. I moved again to the bus 26 again I did not return the corpses to the place I picked up the phone againContinue reading “RESURRECTION”

The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up. The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths. The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything elseContinue reading “The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.”

Maria Stadnicka

Never / Hungry / The / Poem / Is

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