Let all things fly out

Cover your lips and hails

Inhale the odour of wind and change

Pry open the little casket

Let all things fly out

Both peaceful nights and lullabies


Renounce them

Confusion and long nights are coming


If you wish for whispers and thick shelters


A dream is a famous sower

In the age of new illusions

Which virgins turn to life

Praise of the Progenitrix

Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy-seven
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce Veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Now already an ageing whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.


Does the silence agree with the talk
in Sunday’s tumultuous land
the eternal also facing each other
mocking songs are
reduced to someone else’s life
fed defamatory method and threat

Whether oblivion can overcome man
whether it is accepted malice
and so many stories are mournful
that were invented about me
this is the land of undeniable witness
all libellous human

Picture walls these will keep the sky
and dream, dissolved light rain
over the land encourages truthful Pilate
it is possible that at some point you will believe it
the kingdom of heaven is like the kingdom of men

and the son to whose bow they came
about the three kings for the worship of Christ
and their son never shines
and their paths are shifted east
thought – dream
which erodes the body, like the last quarter of full moon


I saw they were in you, the flames of the crown
future dawns and secret nights
later, in a land of injustice, I was lost
as when a friend or unknown love is sought

A golden effigy

image: Tantric Sorcerer,” William Mortensen, 1932


Let no single stone in the world suppose
After breathing, pain and dying
Slowly, shileded by new cloth in well – devised battle

Oh, my lions…

March in dark blue trousers, again and again
with the nerve!, between tooth decay and the pure
hill of milled edge.

In preaching of apostles
in credulity of harlots
I arise to – day, forged within

A golden effigy.

quick to take an artistic hint
avoid the obvious and
the commonplace;

For I am invoked by the blood, through
the flesh blood and the malignant scorpion
I dispel Irae in the heart and soothes…

I copulate with half-said thing.
For I am a dead scholar.
Sink not upon a bad of pyre, It is a flowery pain.

It’s coming down in buckets
Looks like a stigmata
My buckets runneth over.

Holy me!

For I am in twirl and retreat, through utter crack
I swim with yama – ubas grotesques.
Dance deathless

When I die
I make a meal
of myself.

For I tore down my images…
A weary time through confession of
Every man who speaks of me

I am a beggar of all churches
I am a Being of all trades
I am not here
I am not even – there.

May imnmutable secret shine brightly upon
our withered body:

I summon thee, Unreallity, that thee
may see when trick is gone.
I remain.

By the virtue of all deaf and dumb and Lazarus,
I command thee: come forth and beguile them
with lies closed behind and orphaned moons.

Erotic to the soul, fair golden goddess
decieve us.


I – Prophetess!
I wade onto the devils’ blasphemy
Chiseled inside
The womb of the Sphinx
Where dead Oedipus
Murders father-Chronos
Tied to the flute of Pan
from which the
(un)maker Logos
does not reach.
I – Prophetess!
Mock the cross
And the Chosen Ones
Beaten ribs
His saint-peter-esque
Descendents of the new
Tower of Babylon that quarters
Unborn children.
I – Prophetess!
I urinate into Lethe
Scattered in the heads
Of Pandora’s bastards
I kiss the wound of Caesar
As predicted by Genesis.

“non – loving” poetry”

I am always concerned about “editing” my poems because English is not my native tongue and I want to be sure the message is conveyed. But, now I will talk about the other thing inspired by the comment of a colleague of mine, on my narrative poem, in fact, I put some my “angry” poems there and thus I called it: ANGRY POEMS.My collegue liked it and said to me in the comment fb section:
“A great work.The wording a vast ocean .Ocean of thoughts,and feelings.A whole world to swimm in its glimpse”
And then I had the urge to open my chest (not literally..) and to say what I think about “non – loving” poetry”.
Here is my reply and this is where I stand:
People in general, do not like anything that is “dark” or “angrily”, but my position is clear: people wary of poets because the poet reveals the truth about this world. if he manages to do so in an aesthetic way, for me it is the poetry … One can not always write about the Polish flowers and daisies. The most important thing for the poet is not pander to the taste of a wide readership in order to be “loved”. The poet should remain true to himself, whatever his material may be, whatever his obsession may be, whatever his “madness” may be, because the most unfortunate people and the most unsuccesful writers are those who care what others think of them.



I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy

With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?


Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non est!