~ on the first day he took me to the river ~

he did so. there were far wilder flowers at its eastern bank.

just before leaving my room, i grabbed a book for a random fortune-telling. for it was the first day. the book was collected works of John Milton, lines chanting the future were:

In all his lineaments, though in his face

The glimpses of his Father's glory shine

indeed, a joyful reunion

how music snaps into my lifeline just perfectly

almost esoteric coincidences

tear the pages out
and write them faster

~ i can only pray this way ~

take my piano ------- and then take me

dust it with your only shirt

i will sleep, the black key in my hand, under the pillow
your forehead, lined
stretching into a stave
words, stretching into five lines
or more, if the scale is big enough

notes
pauses
b-flats
ties

endless

persistent

constant

here


hey.




here

~ chitin chord ~

snail is the poet in the hour of canaries

~ i read in these ash signs - ~

when you're on the edge and drunk, you don't think. and when you don't think, you might end up foretelling your future from a random page of a random book, might you not. a random sentence of a greenbacked voice.

but i said: 'if you please, we will commit ourselves to this void, and see whether Providence is here also. if you will not, i will.' but he answer'd: 'do not presume, o young man, but as we here remain, behold thy lot, which will soon appear when the darkness passes away.'

william, seriously? the pages i've always felt were meant for me, now at random? is a sign that obvious still a sign or is it more like a poke in the head of a fool?

- we've been through hell

even if married

they say manuscripts never burn

shall we see if i am one

~ tangerine dream ~

agaze. i've just realized, clearly like never before, how it goes. how it always goes.

you see this person and in the first moment you want to run to him and kiss him right away. and then you wake up to reality and start breathing again. and you look at him and then you slowly get closer to each other, reaching the place where you both already are since the very first second.

the moment of recognition.

~ darker side of the moon ~

what is it that makes night so appealing?

i should be long asleep by now. instead - i'm feeling.
reflecting the shadows on the walls. chat noir on the poster above. music on.
something's gone wrong with my lung today, it still hurts when i breathe.
i don't know how things happen to me. they just do.

and it's not that i don't like daytime, only that -

sunrise comes too soon

~ parliament square ~

dziś manną - popioły
ludzie czarnozębni
czarnoręcy

czarnoduszni

today's long walk. in the rain. crouching in the middle of the road to take the photo, some horning idiots. grey stillness. cold.
grammophone got broken.

it may be silent
but i hear bombs fall

~ vigil ~

posłuchaj moich słów
przez uderzenia
i huk powietrza

nie chyl się nad kowadłem
nie kuj klucza do na wpół rozpadłego domu

rzuć młot

patrz jak śrubokręt
mięknie w ogniu

ciesz się blaskiem

sigrid grímsdóttir

shivering.
serenity.

~ theme. love. mogadishu ~

sulphur.
i don't know if you feel this way sometimes, but i do - you fall asleep and you know you don't want to wake up. i don't mean you want to die or you want tomorrow not to come. i mean you just don't want to wake up to reality. again. this may sound stupid and exaggerated, in fact it's very usual, prosaic. many people escape nowadays. they do it all the time, often unawarely. you do it for an hour or for not more than a few minutes and it makes you feel like a criminal. even the corner of my screen is becoming a metaphore now, and my screwed hair, and basically everything. the rain is whipping the windows, i'm watching a good movie. sad and heavy, what else.
it's very, very dark.
a tiny insect is walking up my screen and i'm wondering what it might mean. my eyebrows frown out of themselves.

no, there couldn't be any picture under this note.

it couldn't get me safely through the night

~ blue notes ~

i sat in front of my laptop, just about to pixel down a piece of story i scribbled during one of those grey, almost-winter train travels. when i opened the notebook, i found a note written in april nearly two years ago. i remember it. the notebook was way too expensive but it was sunday evening, everything closed - i had no choice. that's how i became a loony owner of a blue notebook with a white symbol of bird on its cover and translations of "bird" right underneath.

and so i started writing with a black pen. i wished it was my favourite one, with ink of rainy colour, as i use to call it. it's blue. a special kind. rainy. mine.

ptak bird oiseau uccello vogel