A Spotify-Exclusive EP.

A Soundcloud-Exclusive Compilation Album.

Adam Sandosa · Demos & Memos 2004-2025.

MU

Flowered tapestry stretched from the house by the dunes to the horizon, lashed by the moonlit glow pouring from his woman’s eyes. Who was she? Who was he? These questions are unnecessary and misguided, these questions are as boring as the evening news and as puffed‑up as daisies in pudding. No one knows who they are, who they will be, who they were. We have only the names of control. When we step outside our own, seemingly our own, yet in truth system‑imposed identity, we’ll understand that inside there is nothing. There is the wind that speaks with the dead and the spirit that speaks with the living, there is one transmission of night and one transmission of day, fair and square – while politicians and priests knead their lies on other, less obvious frequencies, and then those who believed their name was Adam or Eve nod their heads, pray to their little altars, and go to sleep soothed by television babble.

Nothing is as obvious as he is, when all you need is another shot of space, and the flowered tapestry stretches from the house by the dunes to the horizon, repeating its patterns into infinity, toward the rising or setting sun, because by the sea everything is the same – light, vibration, wave, sound. No one counts time, no one looks at a calendar, no one wears watches. His woman sighs. Who was she? Who was he? Who are we even talking about? Are we talking about that sixteen‑year‑old lost in the sand, or the eighteen‑year‑old lost in him? Are we talking about ego or soul, salvation or doubt, finding or losing? How many waves and vibrations are there in a single second of her sigh, and who records the tapes of dawn? How many questions of identity, what is identity, what is the “it” you call “yourself”? Who are you? Why are you reading this? Why do you watch TV and listen to the radio? Why do you buy tapes of your favorite performers? Who are they? The pseudonym “Elvis” carved into a ribcage with a butcher’s knife, the pseudonym “love,” the heart symbol, another teenage song sprayed as graffiti on her fence?

There was a Doors logo there and postcards of Morrison eating a watermelon, I remember it well. There was some Adam and some Eve, there was something in the yard of the town’s only elementary school. There were tastes, glasses, gears. There were bicycles. There was something or someone, or somehow it spoke to the source. And now what is there? The pseudonym of the flowered tapestry stretching to the horizon, the concert on the pier, the lost pair of trousers, or the cracked lens of blue hippie sunglasses. We’re talking about a crime against identity. About the cruelty of names. Wait, who’s “we”?

Yesterday I dreamed that Brian Jones and I were riding the New York subway, sharing songs we never managed to write in everyday life. In dreams everything happens faster, like in London. And London is another dream. Dreams within dreams, repeats the hallway alarm clock, clattering out the first bars of Pink Floyd’s “Time.” But time is not a curse, it is an illusion. You and here everything is an illusion. You and here everything is wind. You and here everything is silence and the storm of morning in lilies. I once wrote songs about lilies, by the sea, in that very house by the dunes, on an old classical guitar with a “Nalepa” sticker. When two 64‑page notebooks filled up, I decided to throw them away. They weighed too much, like identity, the snake skin you must shed.

And so I splashed my way to the source. There were no snakes, no hippies, no lilies, no dunes, no songs – there were crystals of night and Brian Jones whispering in my ear, “let’s add flutes there, a whole mass of flutes.” Maybe we both had a flute phase, maybe we were meant to meet in that dream – and it wasn’t my dream – it was a transmission of day, straight from New York, specifically from the subway. In the subway you will meet yourself, if you discard the Adams and Eves, the ID cards, the numbers, and the random encounters to which you assign meaning.

Wait, who is writing this? Who is reading this? Who is who and what is what, when nothing remains but the wind. If it blows too hard, the dunes will wash into the sea, and the old ancient Mayan concrete will exhale from beneath the sand. Concrete that doesn’t appear in history textbooks, and a history you won’t hear at a seaside bonfire. Who lit the bonfire, why are naked women dancing? My secret name was revealed to me, and his woman is already asleep. Who was she? Who was he? Maybe me, the sixteen‑year‑old from the beach, or maybe some other kid on vacation. Or maybe the punk bassist from the concert across the way. They really played there! Concrete washed into the ocean by a single Black drum, Mu rises from the bottom. Mu is full of songs. Mu is always you and here. Mu is always where the source is – the mirror of wind, Mu, mirror of wind. Mu’s mirror, wind, Mu’s mirror.

"The Desert Shore of Darłowo"

Flying saucers flew into the town from the direction of the port. I didn’t really see them; I only heard a sound like in an old cartoon—piercing, high, and sudden. In my hippie days I often imagined flying saucers while smoking weed and watching Scooby Doo, and the cartoon sometimes showed aliens too. My naïve mind didn’t know any other entertainment back then. In fact, even then I already knew—or rather felt—that there was some kind of holiness in the weed, something beyond entertainment, church, and humanity, but most of my buddies smoked it as an addition to Scooby Doo, which was probably healthier and more human than sacralizing the plant.

The plant, anyway, isn’t the most important thing in my story. There are flying saucers, after all. Them, and the girl.

The girl swears she saw them, and although she had taken LSD once, on the day the saucers appeared she was completely and undeniably clean. She wasn’t prone to fantasizing, though it was precisely her incredible imagination that magnetized my heart to her refrigerator. We called her Moog “the fridge.” She was the only owner of a Moog in the entire seaside area. I urged her many times to record an album, but she claimed that any medium kills the eternal reverb of electronics.

She also smoked enormous amounts of weed, and I met her at a Moskwa concert, when—completely drunk—she collapsed onto my lap and slurred, “What’s your name?” Adam, I replied. Ewa, the stranger introduced herself, though of course her real name was something else entirely—Agata.

I don’t remember the concert very well, but years later I recall with some amusement the rumor that I jammed with the legendary Moskwa that day. Possibly, though Agata doesn’t remember it either. I’d have to ask Malejonek, but he probably doesn’t talk to anarchists anymore. He played a great concert in Darłowo with some acoustic project, and I think he even left me an autograph.

But I moved so many times that even my Wah Wah has vanished without a trace, let alone autographs on scraps of paper or equally fleeting, often‑borrowed records. Maybe Agata is right about her Moog and the reverb of electronics. Maybe some elusive things are better left in the realm of elusiveness, like the white butterflies released in Hyde Park in memory of the elusive Brian Jones.

Some things are, or become, legend, and time works like the sea, polishing boulders into sand. With a bit of luck, a small pebble will remain after us, taken by a child from the beach to a big city, or sand where the desert meets the ocean.

As Nico sang, we’ll meet on the desert shore. She’s already there, waiting with a million stories to tell, accompanied by her harmonium—just as Agata has her Moog.

Agata is still alive, and she has just seen the saucers. She says they weren’t particularly spectacular, and she’s not sure, but it seems to her they landed on the eastern part of the beach, and that maybe it would be worth checking.

So I dressed as fast as I could—meaning I threw a coat over my pajamas—and ran past the dunes. It wasn’t far at all. I noticed a greenish‑gold light behind the farthest dune and the last pine. Something serious was definitely happening here; the light trembled in the sea breeze, and the weather itself felt slightly unreal for the middle of winter on the Baltic coast.

And finally, indeed, I see those damn ships. Or rather—judging by their size—exploration capsules. They emanate light, as if from some extraterrestrial radiation source. I walk closer, and I wake up.

I see the soothing greenish lights of the Moog, and Agata is playing and singing, “Hare, Gandzia, Hare.” My first song. I thought it was ephemeral and had already dispersed into the Universe somewhere between the realm of dreams, nightmares, and hopes. It didn’t have much text, but it had a lot of space for an intergalactic synthesizer solo.

I open the local newspaper; I don’t see any strange news. But I remember the saucers, so I ask Agata about them, and she replies with stoic calm that a beautiful Nordic blonde brought her that melody.

Right, I mutter—too much LSD. I, on the other hand, must have eaten too much canned meat, my only meal during long winter days by the beach. What kind of anarchist am I if I eat meat? Meat is substance, and dreams, hopes, and nightmares wait just behind the illusory screen of reality until we decide to reach for them.

I wish I remembered the lyrics—I’d join Agata, and she would once again become the nameless Ewa I met at the Moskwa concert. Time would stand still, or rewind to my “year zero,” and Scooby Doo would solve the mystery of the flying saucers in Darłówko.

But utopias don’t exist, because their natural consequence is dystopia, so the cartoon character will never investigate what lies hidden in that beach. And there are billions of stories of billions of years there, from which I choose one pebble and keep polishing it. One day it will become Neptune’s ring.

But that’s a distant planet, and the Nordic visitor didn’t leave instructions for the ship. Still, I believe that with her web of sound, Ewa and Agata will find the right connections and activate the Moog as the ship’s control panel.

The ship is buried a bit further east, the capsules still wait on their trembling note of light, and we have all the time in the Universe.

So let’s sing cheerfully by the hippie bonfire: “Hare Gandzia, mmm, Hare Gandzia Hare.”

Devil’s Vineyards (2004).

A new disease will come in clouds of marijuana, fumes of opium, absinthe, and whores. A new disease will come as rock’n’roll pollution. A new disease will chew your bodies, the bodies of your mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, friends and enemies. It will send your sons to hell through the heavenly gates of your degenerate, debauched daughters. It will impale your friends and seat your enemies on thrones, first crowned with thorns. Your mothers and fathers will burn on pyres – the first raped, the second with slit throats.

The disease will come UNNOTICED. It will wear the mask of circus, theater, concert, innocent joyful Song, virginal spectacle, television show, prize contest. It will be your Joyful Reaper with a Holy Song upon Lustful Lips.

Maximum darkness lurks in the devil’s vineyards.

Now is the time of knowing. The time of rotten fruit. The time of a feast for people thirsty for mortal nectar.

The Hydra of Worlds turned its eyes toward desolate cliffs, toward the dead sea, and toward the sun leaning lazily westward, slowly dying. A fraction of a second later it was already TOO LATE. Sudden attack. Screams. Feast. Tomorrow the Altars of Dawn are ours!!!

And the world was seized by vulgar death in all its manifestations.

“The Golden Void” (2005).

I looked at her, and there were wings resembling the moon caught in a fisherman’s net and a neon on a shadowed boulevard, wings blacker than night, sweeter than honey – at once brighter than the sun and bitter to infinity – Wings that contained everything beautiful and immeasurable.

There were wings like mirrors gazing into each other and winking knowingly, amused. There was a cemetery bathed in emerald glow, and there was a garden where black orchids bloom beneath the full summer sun, while children squander time.

And there were eyes, millions of eyes illuminating her entire body. Iron butterflies perched upon her eyelids, which under the weight of solid metal closed again and again. The butterflies screamed.

The golden void turned, revealing its magical-garden splendor and black holes strung upon whips of purple nebulae, marked by the breath of volcanoes and the mad agony of desert worlds.

We became an arrow released by the trembling hand of dawn, which had stolen from the darkness the last cemetery diamond, and now, drawing its bow for the first time, shot a luminous arrow straight into the vagina of night, so that among the waves of the final illuminated orgasm it might return to its intimate tomb.

The golden void winked invitingly, one of countless stars in the radiant winter sky.

Be anything that no one is. (2005/2006).

Wind in the antennas. Silent, undefined, doubtful.

It carries more meaning than all possible media. It carries the primal content. It carries the core of progress. It carries culture. It carries conquests. It carries the dirty blood of conquerors, it carries innocence and whoredom. Being silence, it simultaneously disturbs it with the wavering of antennas, with the temptation of the sky, devouring every new sun, covering it with pallor. I struggle to catch breath. Wind in the antennas. Wind in the antennas... Carry our verses above the January sky. Carry silence, stagnation, resignation. Carry the shadow of mere defeat, a shadow that terrifies when seen from the Center. Harakiri of millions of ghosts, guts flooding the streets, guts flooding the roofs, guts flooding the sky, guts...

The shadow provokes you into uncontrolled acts – sudden death, spontaneous orgasms, unexpected screams of awakening, barely audible cuts with a razor, brutal rapes, leaps from bridges full of splendid lights, riding elevators without purpose, running straight under passing cars, slaughtering the whole fucking family, brushing against the shadow of risk with a sudden swerve into the opposite lane, shooting into the canal like into the very center of the periphery, drinking absinthe with two whores, vomiting on expensive carpet ornaments, shitting on costly antique armchairs, fucking a dog under the bridge, tearing the skin from your own face with a blissful smile, pissing on your father’s corpse, devouring your underage lover piece by piece and vomiting again on the carpets. Wind in the antennas tempts the ghosts obedient to it.

Ghosts love everything they fear. Ghosts have nothing. Wind in the antennas has seized everything that was ever important. Now Fear makes them free.

Within the bounds of fear and in the shackles of antenna wind – yet free. Though electric wind sometimes shakes the rotting flesh wrapped around spectral bones. Freedom then shakes the ulcerated brain. And cruelty finally pierces through the mask of whorish, unbearable docility. Greatness above all.

Somewhere far away, yellow-violet, pale flashes illuminate the sky. NEW YEAR on the peripheries rips open the entrails of the day. The vagabond laughed. He walked further west, returning to time.

The day whispers: Wake me at last, you fucking bastard, inject life into me, crush the tomb walls, declare war on the miserable conspirators, erase all traces, wake me at last you damned son of a bitch! Wake me FUCKING wake me, don’t answer calls, don’t move from bed, sleep so I can suspend myself in your holy whorish space, digest me, turn me inside out, smash all windows, break down all doors wake me you whore, wake me! Turn off alarms, smash cars, cut the POWER, steal all energy from the fucking vampires. Wake me or rot and I’ll rot with you.

Symphonies of mistakes respond with the steady beating of drums. Other instruments fall silent. Thus whispers the day...

The wild rhythm of drums shook the pulsing heart of the jungle, burst apart the wet air and made it tremble, moaning with pleasure. The sound of drums swelled, reaching incessantly toward orgiastic crescendo with admirable regularity. Soon the deep bass shook the foundations of the jungle and the greenery, until now seemingly eternal, began to collapse, withdrawing its moist tentacles, revealing the City.

through eons of devastation path after path the motionless sea keeps watch tribes of the night unite around the monumental bones of an ancient sea beast jazz of lanterns, rain of drums ancient paths turned into highways toward temples of gaslight and empty windows of sleeping estates

"Peripheries" (2005/2006).

Two days from here, three kilometers closer.

For people from the center, forced to drive through, they are a land of dangerous shadows of their comfortable world. A deformed, repulsive image, a shattered mirror of their dreams, successes, and euphoria. A wild wasteland full of half-humans wandering aimlessly all day. Hunched, dressed in rags, they gaze at the distant towers of the City with longing eyes. This is the image of passersby. The image of control. The image from beyond the perfect boundary.

And we here breathe corpse-like, scentless air under cold stars, absorbing every metallic sound, every echo of mortal coughing, every moan, scream, and horn. Passing ghosts, pitiful shadows suspended in white streaks on the lanes to the right, red ones to the left, and between them the miserable green hung in concrete.

Ghosts shoot into the peripheries horde after horde. They penetrate the lecherous darkness and the subcutaneous hatred flowing somewhere beneath the asphalt. Sometimes you see their faces when they slow down. Cruel empty faces filled with a perverse smile. Festering boils, cancerous growth, vile whoring insect, carrion jolted by current. Current drives their carrion-machines. Current flows in rotting veins, current passes through the shapeless mass of the organic pump. Electroshocks awaken decaying flesh to life. Ghosts do not exist.

And we look at the towers of the City of Ghosts waiting for them to fall, for pride to be punished, for the happiest day of their existence to arrive, though they will despair, crawl, and die. We wait for the ghosts to return beyond the boundary of sleep. That moment will come soon.

...I vomit, cough, die in splendid drinks, motionless eyelids, Truly jazz You think: fascinations Fireworks I want and she came and began to unpredictably curse FROM angels. You choked splendor _ bourbon of scream tchaikovsky cancerous close-ups jazz rain I AM Antennas late carrion, fork of eyelids Every corner of carnivals dancers thin wallets in starfish bottles too little blood not bed not butterflies our you said trembled morning splendor body nights breeze only peripheries not smoke moments days I have shadow fading man-number with a glass of 77 we turned into illuminated worlds. I have tchaikovsky Antennas tremble 4 a.m., too late, incessant Dawn of words Gray fog I sit in a plate, spin it completely I haven’t drunk since yesterday I have countless combinations want also to recognize cinema Day whispers so quiet unnecessary and incessantly you sighed Sensually into intimate excess I haven’t drunk since yesterday I have combinations I have trumpets Something sometimes somewhere I AM cigarette coffee lips corpse fright, ancient paths resounded turned into highways resembling the moon blinking at each other serpentines of days and such days and still others slowly bedding of a sea beast drunken demon half-burned wedged between centuries for centuries I haven’t slept for centuries seas of larvae when they speak of scentless air I still have a bed of tchaikovsky Where roofs end, darkness begins retreating from her cigarette Cool breeze with flame, with snow Dance Sing Bargain for your own ass at the Market of Freaks...

And so the verses of the peripheries flow through the dead January sky proclaiming to all the gray silent dawn. Above the city, beneath the city, and beyond it – gray silent dawn. Somewhere on the tracks a dog whines...

"December 9 (as I remember it)" (2005/2006).

So we started drinking with Maciej in a small dive somewhere near the old market, beer beer beer until I ran out of money. Cigarettes had already run out earlier, which wasn’t a problem—Maciej immediately bought some at the bar, Pall Mall, probably the strong ones. So we smoked, and I finished what was at least for now my last beer, in a pitiful and sad mood, even though earlier we’d been talking about how I have to become a legend, how I’ve got the predispositions, how it’s all going great. We also talked about my new love, who seems less selfish, more demanding, definitely not a one-night thing but rather for life, and maybe for the first time I’m right. So I raised a toast to Her, and thought then that I could use some money, so I wanted to borrow it from someone. Marta was in town, and I thought she’d surely be kind and understanding as always, and lend me a few coins so I could survive the night at least until four, as is my habit. My Lady was probably already asleep. Returning to Her all the time until morning, and then dreaming that strange dream about Her a few years later, how she’d change and what we’d be doing on the night bus going to the pub—I’d get off at the right stop, distracted by a friend I hadn’t seen in ages, wanting to introduce Her, but She wouldn’t be there anymore, She’d stayed on the bus and gone somewhere else. And later She’d explain to me why She did it, that She loved me very much, but they were opening that new pub a little further on and She had to go, and all of this She’d do over the phone—and if that really happens, let me be damned. So thinking about what will or won’t be, I felt the full force of a powerful crescendo of choices I have to make, since my life began 20 years ago and so far it’s hard to call it a life. Yes, sometimes I’m happy, sometimes too much, sometimes I run half-naked in the snow of the old market and a taxi driver shouts “Looks like summer’s back!” and nobody understands, though some laugh and others just stare. More often I feel like a 40-year-old, my soul is old and ruined, and I don’t know what will happen when another 20 years pass. I want a peaceful life beside a beloved person, so I can love her, write, listen to jazz, take long walks, and all the rest of those awful clichés that nonetheless make a person happy longer than being drunk or high or both together with something extra for an encore. Anyway, I had no intention of betraying that unspoken love, not yet unfolded, and I decided not to dance. I also decided to start a week of peace, drink green tea, listen to Gong Live Etc., and not leave the house. Sit there completely alone, since She won’t come. Lock myself in my prison of habits—new ones, but quite similar to the old, since both are escapes from responsibility and decision-making, and above all escapes from everything that overwhelms me and makes up the prose of my pitiful drinking. And above all, not to dance in a billowing white shirt with some random chick. And so it was. Maciej stayed at the table with his beer, I threw on my coat, left my scarf, and went out to the square where I’d arranged to meet Marta. She was with her cousin, we chatted a bit, “what’s up with you,” the usual crap, I got the money and went back to the pub. We probably ordered another beer and started talking about the film we want to make. A film without a script, an open film, a film about the two of us, since the rest considered their lives too uninteresting to make a film about, and some couldn’t imagine filming without a script, probably because they don’t know who Godard is. The discussion about film and with film took up some precious evening time, and it got late, so we decided to get up, buy some decent wine at the night shop, and go to the pub where Marta and her cousin were sitting—basically just to borrow a corkscrew and open the wine—and only for some fucked-up kid to throw Maciej against a crate marked “Warning, high voltage,” while his brother fed me some pathetic bullshit about how they’re from Holland, and Maciej spoke English so he’s a sucker because he’s Polish and shouldn’t do that again. They must have been drinking harder than us, because I didn’t understand a single word of their crap. Anyway, after these marginal adventures on the way, we opened the wine inside, I started drinking, and we decided to go to the citadel—which didn’t happen, because on the way we thought of walking to the dorm to make sandwiches, and I wanted to sleep. But when we got there, through wonderful shortcuts across mud, bushes, fields, trees, the stadium, and a huge street not busy at that hour, and then another one, it turned out that fucking indifference reigns everywhere, even where it shouldn’t, and the pitiful people at the reception desk probably do nothing else in life but stare at faces, because they remembered I don’t live there and wouldn’t let me in. And honestly, judging by my appearance, I wouldn’t have let myself in either. I remembered Ziggy in another dorm a few steps away, and there a gray-haired angel with indescribable calm said, “410, right? Just please, no noise, and only for an hour.” And we talked with Ziggy about the Stones concert, about our generation, about youth, about the cultural hole in our fucking city that no one can fill, and it so happens we’re young and great and only here once in this world, and instead of doing something we sit here drinking—I red, Maciej and Ziggy white wine—and then Ziggy treated us to sandwiches, and we talked about that nonsense with breaks for cigarettes in the corridor, which we put out in a jar filled with water and the butts of previous speakers. And nothing really came of that conversation except the brilliant thesis that Maciej would drop by his place and make sandwiches, I’d wait, and we’d head back to the city, catch the night bus, and then find a pub open at 4 a.m. willing to take in two alcohol-thirsty guys—which in Poznań is practically impossible, since almost all the night dancers politely go home, lacking stamina, topics, money, and everything else, so they go to sleep. And honestly, I don’t blame them—if I didn’t have money, I’d have been asleep long ago instead of riding a rickety night bus to the center, this time even with some cheerful, lively people inside, drunk but funny, not pitiful as usual. We got off, sang something, and went looking for a pub, but didn’t find one, which was predictable—except two crazy girls found us, clearly looking for suckers to buy them drinks. One professionally scanned my clothes for signs of how expensive they were, and asked me what I do. I said I play jazz. She said she doesn’t understand jazz, which I expected, because she was really uninteresting and ugly to the point of pain in that glaring light, but very self-confident. And I thought, man, that’s what you’re missing—look at her, look at yourself, and tell yourself what the fuck you’re doing here. But Maciej went downstairs with the other one to check out the party, because we finally found a pub—which didn’t change the fact that the fucking entry fee was 15 złoty, and I was still sober enough to tell the girls, “Oh no, no way. It’ll be harder for you to find two suckers to pay for your dancing than for us to find two beautiful—beautiful, I repeat—girls at this hour. So goodnight, have fun, and same to you.” And we went into another pub, just the two of us again, and I felt good, and thought, man, that’s progress. In the past you’d have used every trick to mess around with one of those hustlers, but now no, oh no, you remember your promises—may it stay that way. And in the pub, which seemed very exclusive, though I’d been there once with a certain blonde dressed in white from head to toe, which doesn’t matter now, artificial people indulged in a bit of artificial spleen with artificial music, but the beer, though expensive, was quite good, and those cigarettes in the golden pack I’d never seen before, called Benson & Hedges—and in the morning, the tenth, around two p.m., came the reflection tied to them. Then just tram line 2 and home, each to his own, of course, though I stopped by the cemetery on the way, as morning entertainment before going to sleep. Then bed, and again a dream of Her—this time I don’t remember what about or who else, I have them every day, maybe because I go to sleep and wake up with Her name on my lips. And now I sit and finish writing this pitiful fragment about a wonderful day, and wish you pleasant reading—and if you haven’t yet, then fuck you all, because between these lines is life. And I love my Little Lady.

"Altars of Dawn" (2002/09/20).

Altars of Dawn The sun rises, stars remain, they no longer set. Eternal evening, eternal dawn, divided by a bloody knife. Destiny serves me, I command dreams, I strike the bell, its hollow sound echoes between us. Rest upon the altar of dawn, scratch out your eyes, tear out your heart, look below, depart as a new man. Wounds open, the table appears. Time of supper, eternal hunger, body and blood, acid brothers. Take, share, worship. A great orgy on the altar, the starry cleric sleeps.

The new day rises, everything has changed. The universe opens its gates, minds open, all eyes awaken. Memories not worth stirring. Neon light, cold streets, lonely mankind screams in the chambers of psychologists. Never again, never. Man is not an object, man has soul and body. Let the wind lift me, I do not wish to see the Earth as it was before it began to change. Empty chairs, faceless estates, a world without feeling, without beauty, without love or dreams.

Rose of Hell A silver spoon measures time, a short fuse burns, blood in your eyes, steel in your veins. You chose, now pay. Pleasure chases pain, the hundredth day, the great high, you feel like a king. In the syringe blooms a red young flower, ripening to embrace your world. Your woman laughs, she wants to try, she undresses, caresses, but you must say no. Do not let her take what remains. She took your mind, your body. Dawn rises in empty eyes, the dead sun shines down, everything enrages you.

Martyr You sit close, gaze into my face. I laugh satanically, you claim you know me, but you do not know what I do at night, the spectral glow that shrouds graveyards. I knock upon their gates. Time for the orgy of eternal sighs, the bloody orgasm sleeps, it will awaken, ripen, stand at your door. It will slip into every point of flesh, penetrate the abyss, tear you apart in frenzy, hear the sweet moan. You die of rapture, bells sound hollow. I depart sated, blood releases me. Dead rats on your bed, you scream “No!” Bound, you have no chance, chains clank. I never depart, executor of torments.

Hermit Dusk rapes the day, the sun has set, my eyes gleam like eternal seas. Bathed in young stars, I embrace you, your eyes sparkle though reason whispers no. The angel of death awakens, silence calls us. Our world more splendid than the hermitage of the masses. She is my sun, I her shadow, I open every door. Together we change reality, we rise, levitation of two souls, two bodies. Where dawn thunders, darkness endures.

In my hermitage among forests, I reflect on the future shrouded in uncertainty. I strive to sweep it away, to glimpse the world a thousand years hence. As it is, or as it will change. I gaze into starry roads, wide gates I wish to open, break the bond of time, hear voices, feel touch, create the mirror of life. I wish to create your dreams.

I rest upon the altars of dawn, unfurl wings, fly high where none has been, break the sacred loops of time, avoid all roads, build my own, revive dreams.

Temple Four walls, rows of benches, dead faces, empty gaze. Silence, heavy steps. Blood and urine mix, the whore cries “Fuck!” Sick world, holy world, believe or die. On your knees, wretched dog, join us, faithless, be saved. We are many, we are right, paltry arguments, biblical nonsense, monuments. You believe, fool, open your eyes. Do you not see where you live, in a catalogue of perversions. Power and money rule, we’ll leave you alone, just don’t look at our hands.

Four walls, asylum of lies, spiral of falsehood runs downward, disorienting you. Truth and lie dissolve, you follow society, you waste away. On your knees, wretched dog, join us, faithless, be saved. We are many, we are right, paltry arguments, biblical nonsense, monuments.

From the Realms of the Underdeath Born, you search for light, warmth and peace. Frightened of night, you cry when the sun does not glow. In time you learn to live in the shadow of the sun. Pandemonium ahead, you wonder if it is time. Pray to fire, wonder why, ask, but your time is over. Follow me, you will see, senseless mind out of order. Wake up your mind. Wake up your mind. Wake up.

"The Green Bus" (2001).

"The poet is therefore truly a thief of fire." — A. Rimbaud

Isolate
Surveil
Bring in
Take out
With the passing years you’ll learn this and a few other, most necessary things.
Desk work is a terrible torment on hot days.
A military figure holds up the heavens.
The expert declares — a good vintage, truly delicious.
You must know him, or you’ll perish in this trade.
Circumcision bureaucracy.
A sniper candidate slams the window open — oh, bad — not good, not good...
People are the measure of the region, remember:
Surveil.
A thought is like milk poured into coffee.
And you are the coffee.
You won’t recognize yourself in the street, archer.
The tabloids will tell you nothing:
"Citizen K. was murdered last night in an exceptionally brutal manner. The perpetrators..."
"Mrs. E. gave birth to her sixth child and is doing well..."
Did you burn the photographs?
Give me the ashes, at once — a white film and something to drink.
I missed the tram.

Black Peter (2001/2002).

"Blessed be the men of almighty minds, for the winds shall lift them (...)" — A.S. LaVey

And from the east, in the glow of the morning star and the warm summer breeze, came Black Peter. No one knew who this man truly was. Some said he was a common vagabond, while others, attributing supernatural deeds to him, feared his diamond eyes. Peasants stepped aside, and those who considered themselves enlightened insisted on speaking with him. Yet Black Peter always dismissed them with the same distaste and contempt. He alone decided whether the conversation would take place. He judged it was still too early, caressed his beloved rose for a moment, cursed under his breath, and went on his way.

And all living things hummed: "Peter reigns, clothed in majesty, Peter girded himself with power..."

A long-haired, half-naked man in leather trousers and serpent boots stood atop the mountain. Sideburns joined with a mustache and a long, pointed beard lent him a touch of the demonic. His face was laughing, his arms spread wide in a gesture of triumph. Black Peter had transformed. He was a foundling.

And he came from the east, as I have already said. He walked straight ahead, and when he passed a small wooden church, he stopped before it. He studied the cleverly conceived, though primitive construction for a long time. Without hesitation he opened the door and entered. Unnoticed by anyone, he sat at the organ and, shouting loudly “Lord of the Harvest”, began to play. Two priests, awakened by the dreadful sounds, listened intently. The piece was played in Diabolus in Musica — the scale forbidden by the Church. Black Peter left, and the sound lingered long behind him. He walked on, westward. He was returning home. Another such journey was only a matter of time. Like a ride down the Avenue of Damnation.

"Quanto altius ascendit homo, lapsus tanto altius cadet"? — bullshit. He flew truly high and had no intention of falling. The blackness of obscene wings dimmed the sun; there was no light upon the Earth. Gegen Peter ist kein Kraut gewachsen. Indeed, the only truth.

So Black Peter went to the cemetery to summon the Cemetery Rose, also called Polly Adams. And Black Peter created a woman — his little, private Lilith. Only she made him realize what magic meant and who the sorcerer was. And Peter’s eyes were opened. A honey tongue, a heart of gall. He waited until Lilith revealed to him all the secrets of all worlds. And then he bought a weapon... The Cemetery Rose withered, and Black Peter moved on. Any woman could be his. That was no longer the slightest problem. He had greater matters on his mind — he pondered: (He must reach the Lord of the Abyss. Power over man — he must rule god/gods. He must know the Lord of the Abyss.)

To start the engine he had to kick it (don’t ask where he got the motorcycle — that’s one of the dogmas of faith). He rode straight into the setting sun. The Steel Cowboy.

And Black Peter arrived at the Mountain of Fools to hear the sermon. And Peter saw on the Mountain a group of elders, a chrome triumvirate, and three archangels. A lively discussion cut through the heavens — the eternal quarrel continued. The elders babbled, spitting out scraps of half-chewed meat, the chrome triumvirate feverishly exhaled clouds of silver smoke, the archangels whispered in quiet minarets. The mountain’s name was just. (I take the riders.)

Four silver shadows pierce the dying, purple ashes of the newborn sky. The last metal knights circle granite stars amid the agony of mercury. The first children conceived from pale-pink tendrils of arms cry into the void. Walls of Dream Unmoved.

Men are obedient — one must know which switch to activate — St. John the Impaler, have mercy on the glass eye of Yahweh. Yet remember — I, Peter, your god, am a jealous god, so let not your mercy turn into adoration. Like a crucifix. Neon church.

I look at the sky, which suddenly becomes blacker than the densest tar, though the sun still shines. Suddenly it goes out (too quickly!) like a pitiful fluorescent lamp. It is still light, nonetheless. The moon appears in the sky, then shrinks and vanishes. A solitary cloud. The Earth spins faster and faster, a row of trees blurs into a single graphite streak. Our eight minutes are gone. Painless death in dreamy suicide or eternal agony (slow inhaling of the last scraps of air). Is suicide a sin in such a case?

Definitely not, for behold, four horsemen appear on their chrome machines, illuminating the darkness. They bring no salvation. They have just established a new order. From beyond the horizon rushes Thunderbird Polly Adams — the end of the Avenue of Damnation. New hours of creation. The idyll is over. They came from the east, a new star flared. The world ceased to turn, and the new sun begot new children. And the Word of Peter was fulfilled. Error. Loop...

The vagabond looked to the sky, the bright blue sky, and laughed, and all the birds answered: "He who dwells in heaven laughs, Peter mocks us..." The vagabond laughed again.

(notes: August 2001, notes arranged: March/April 2002)

BARD’S WOMAN IN THE COOL OF THE SUMMER BREEZE (2001).

He woke up vain and deflated, slowly raising his sweaty hands toward the ceiling in a gesture full of expectation, yet at the same time so very bored. Why hasn’t she come yet? he asked the mute image hanging on a screen that looked like a cellophane plate on which someone had scattered tons of brown sugar, hoping to create an inspiring generational work of art. He called out, one after another, the most varied names, trying to match the girl’s face with one of the pictures in his favorite summer book—full of beaches, palms, cows, meadows, shepherds, and naked women. In a word, the warmth of milk and the sweetness of wildflower honey poured straight out of the gentle, delicate pages of that book. It fit perfectly with the soft, lazily flowing music in the smoky room air, coming from the speakers of an old Grundig tape recorder with a door that never quite closed. He thought: It’s wonderful, if only she would graciously put on a watch just once in her life, right now when I need her, and she’s probably still sitting in one of those shabby, empty jazz clubs in the southern part of town (6 a.m.).

He searched for a pack of cigarettes, his half-conscious gaze sweeping over every cupboard, chair, and the huge brown table that had somehow ended up in the middle of his small room, right next to the bed where he had been resting. Here it is, I found it, he said, then after a moment: Empty, damn it, while beginning to dress—throwing a leather jacket over his floral pajamas and slipping on sandals. The door gave way after a gentle press of the handle and a knock just below the top lock, opening up a magnificent view full of greenery—pines, lindens, maples—all mixed together, plus conifers further on, dunes covered with grass, and beyond that the boundless expanse of the sea, which for him was the universe here on earth, toward which he gladly set out after his daily rituals.

She awoke, and yet still dreamed, and so she could not find her bed among the thick violet-orange clouds of sunset, drifting helplessly toward a hill with castle ruins no more than thousands of miles from this planet. Her little island, suspended beneath the moon, always awaited guests, thundering at night with free jazz and by day with bebop, forcing cats to dance along the promenade. She woke, then fell asleep again, and the violent darting of her eyes shot out from beneath her eyelids, merging with the daylight filtering through the patterned curtain wrapped in mandala lace. I feel WOOONDERFUL.

He returned, cursing the local drunks who were capable of ruining any of his utopian mornings, mornings in which there was no place for such events and every person was a sunny incarnation of Buddha. Unfortunately, the morning did not last longer than a moment on the threshold, before he opened the door, and his mind was still searching for apt comparisons and expressions that might help him write another blues. Now he sat on a stone, smoking and admiring the summer skies through the glass of an emptied whisky bottle. He declared: This is what my life looks like, and lay down even lower, pressing his body almost into the stone. The cigarette went out, and again he burned his lips, the falling ember burning the thousandth hole in his pajamas.

In the room he brewed himself coffee, adding three teaspoons of sugar and pouring in an incredible amount of milk. He prepared a roll, then carried it all out onto the balcony, taking with him the indispensable cigarettes and turning the tape recorder up to full volume. He never listened to the radio—boredom, endless boredom seeped out from the tempting, green-lit scale. He sprawled on the balcony, sitting opposite the sea, whose glimmer was visible from here. The binoculars allowed him to see the tiniest details of long-legged, tanned bodies, old sailors, gulls, fishing boats, and the pier full of mindless tourists. He also saw couples sitting on the dunes, fawning over each other in their own childish, naïve way. She did not come. An hour passed, and she still had not come. He decided she was in no hurry anywhere and was probably still asleep, since last night had made her all too aware of what life with a man like him meant. Forever unshaven, long-haired pseudo-artist—that’s what she once said, though he thought she was absolutely wrong. She was a proper Christian girl who at first led a completely different lifestyle than he—he, immersed in various readings saturated with decadence but also in works bursting with optimism, a man who considered himself a modern incarnation of a romantic, to whom the moon laid a cradle and sometimes took on the face of a mother, as he used to say of himself—so her comment was perhaps adequate to the way of life she led in her little world of little girls.

After listening to the moving speech, the archaic auditorium leaves the acrobats’ hall, heading toward the niches in the walls filled with light, and they immerse their faces in them, while the technical recitation directs them toward the Machine—its steel conduits are filled—saturated, it departs. The drained bodies fill the remaining gaps and flash with alluring light. The archaic auditorium leaves the acrobats’ hall. Once and for all.

…down the street to the rhythm of free jazz—self-proclaimed trio—narcotic lads—passing the church several times—somber black against the orange glow of the sky—on the church tower stands a two-meter shadow, humming melodies, and we repeat them, spreading its arms like ominous wings, sleeves flapping—in the catacombs under the city—in postwar bunkers, wild cries, tin face, wax house with a card garage, inside a convertible powered by blue blood that flows down the church tower into a black chalice soaked through with rotten, purple blood staining the gold washed from hardened tears flowing with milk from the holy nipple of the goddess of rain, dripping lushly onto the soaring walls of that church—like the parted lips of a white orchid blooming in the cracks of those walls in defiance of the denial of love. So the shadow on the tower cried out “ANGELS!!!”—and we answered “YES, SON?”—to which he, with a slow rumble, collapsed to the ground like a tear falling down a chest when I cry with my woman, and she laughs and says “Be a man!” though that’s not the point, so he fell and our trio played a funeral march that turned into a wild orgy with the whole harem of unbridled notes, white robes and joy at the funeral—dance on the grave, food for the corpse. Leave the room! Archaic tenant. So we played the march and went further down the street—the rhythm sped up, and the music did not stop, even though our lungs, especially Long’s, who played saxophone and drums—oh, his bleeding hands—my contrabass muttering also tired me, but Hairball kept squeezing out more guitar solos, unbroken cascades of sound.

Blood fainting laughter forgetting home distancing analysis checking god bringing poem introducing door mistaking vertical deviation sun reverie wind dishevelment brain distraction stop! RHYTHM! reference taking flattery giving smoking pondering sleep awakeningairflo w sun I lose rhythm so hurry toward dawn! Hurry toward the elusive breeze and clouds! Dawn awaits us. let’s describe it, it’s a good model…hand posing unhurried willing sinful mournful… why do I rhyme? The church recedes, and the cobblestones slowly, yet playfully, assimilate the angel from the rusty rainbow… Valhalla, I come…

…oh, how hard it was to get up…lifting myself from the couch after last night was almost the same effort as raising a house filled with an enormous number of knights in shining armor. First I moved my hand, then my eye and directed it downward…on the floor two corpses—with open eyes and painted in them the effort in the foreground—and then slow movements…first hand, then hand to pocket, from pocket take out pipe, then bag, pack the pipe—all with one hand…then to mouth, strike match, inhale…the rest of the body still paralyzed, and each of us had burned lips and bloody hands…probably our own blood…my first movement was scratching my chest and reaching into my pants pocket from which I pulled an incredibly crumpled pack of cheap filterless cigarettes…Jesus, I lit up…when it went out I closed my eyes again. (rest of text illegible) so they borrowed an old black Ford from one of the girlfriends and wanted to drive, though none of them knew how to drive. I’ll drive—so we go… (fire)

When a man dances he falls into a certain kind of tribal trance…dance need not be defined by rules…simple, clumsy rhythm of blues beaten with twigs on empty plastic containers and group wailing is the basic element of dance…plus monotonous, steady, trance rhythm…primordial blues-forest fluid in the thicket and on the clearing, everywhere the air plays in heads and creates visions of sound…man is built of sounds, though few realize it…yet he is not a boring symphony, but a captivating wild and pulsing rhythm with bass babble and occasional guitar howl…strings vibrate in each of us…believe it or not, music will catch you, and then it will possess you and tear your brain to shreds, to build on its wasteland a wooden divine monument, a phallic construction pulsing rhythm toward the south…toward the north…whenever it is twelve o’clock…you cannot live without sound…it slows and slows…you need nothing but your own smile, the sky to sing your songs into, and the earth to walk wherever you want…wherever there is rhythm…the pulse there the earth you walk is yours.

Mary smokes Popularne, Joseph drinks with buddies behind the stable, and the whole scene is watched from a cloud by a drunk angel who laughs loudly…the laughter shakes the earth…if god is a man, then I wonder how long his dick is. Longer than mine? I doubt it.

SCENE 1: CHRIST in the cave (for five minutes), GOD stands at the entrance.
— Christ, come out… meditation is over…
CHRIST comes out, scratching his balls. He shouts: — Father, I have discovered the truth.
GOD smiles. — Yes, Son?
— Long live the SUPERMARKET!!!
God collapses to the ground, clutching his heart. He died.
Long live PLASTIC BASKETS, HARE HARE UNCLE SAM. Whoever claims that GOD is dead, step forward…
LONG LIVE THE GREAT HYPERMARKET AND THE ARMY OF BIG-BROTHER DWARF SCREWUPS!
"Images will possess you, Images will instruct you — images…"
DO NOT LET THEM!!!

When I visited Baku the silence of the morning sunrise took hold of my mind… Beyond the black line you cannot see anything, contours collapse into a single point stretched between the eyes—you see the whole space while seeing nothing. On the other side—a multicolored rainbow scatters its hues above your head, creating the entire space from a single crystalline point—the world of diamond. You are not sure if you exist, you know nothing while knowing everything (you are aware of where you come from and where you are going, but all the dry facts and information dissolve into mist—they are unnecessary). So you lie on the water or float in the clouds, and the weather is perfect (spring in full—lots of sun, greenery, blue, small white clouds—but not heat—fresh warmth—the breeze blows from the sea), and your eyes are wide open and it seems you never close them.

The light is soft (just so) and gently caresses the eyes while the wind flows beneath the eyelids. There is no mind, slowly you become the sky (I wait for a scientific expedition that will drag god out of his palace and put him in a cage on display, so children can laugh and point fingers, feeding him biscuits). You become the sky, trees lift their crowns and climb upward, the earth is empty (I wait for a construction crew that will soon build here a multi-entertainment center for asexual kamikaze). The earth is empty, only plants and birds, a strange land where the goddess is the rainbow (I wait for a salesman who could quickly sell me a television, because this boring emptiness is becoming unbearable, and the doorbell is silent). I see a footbridge over the river, pure color of wood, slow current, wide banks—a valley that from time to time surely becomes the riverbed—a strange sight in a land without any buildings—this footbridge has been here since the beginning of the world (I wait for people). There are people—they also fill this fluid field—they stand, lie, sit (nights under the stars)—man, we live forever. Do you understand? — Do you understand? — I understand…

The madman is in the kitchen. Apocalypse. St. John the Impaler. I WANT her for myself!

People on this endless meadow—stars turn above them and beneath them—I realize that I have only just joined (I to them, not they to me, as I first thought)—they have been here for centuries. I ask… no, the answer precedes the question, and it sticks in my throat before I can ask it, because in the meantime I feel an impulse that COMMANDS me to know.

The doctor is in every head. Sister! I feel the edge of the beach under my feet. Two ampoules!!! I knew a girl—her name was Pharmacia Panacea and she always waited at 4:20, and when I didn’t come she came to me. The object escaped.

Smoke turns into clouds, and clouds turn into birds—these in turn circle the sky and tease the sun. The sun breathes. I feel the breath of the sun. These are the first moments of pure sky.

I sit mindlessly, biting my nails (I must replace the cigarette with something). I have nothing to do. The night hours flow slowly in the darkness, suddenly interrupted by flashes of stars and streaks of clouds. I reflect (windows open with a bang, revealing the summer night sky). I hold a discussion with myself. Smoke rises from the only chimney in town. The devil never sleeps. I see a pair of eyes on the sky. They rise from beyond the horizon, lighting the night with the neon of primordial magic. Divine, unbroken concentration. Despair after losing loved ones. Joy in every aspect of existence. Untroubled calm of unbroken sleep that does not speak but pumps all juices into the brain, nourishing it with the adrenaline of night (calm adrenaline that only gently tickles the palate). Nylon of the heavens. Transparent umbrella. Slides from the first holidays. Sweet memories that will never fade, even if you open the window as wide as you can. You will not stop dreaming, just as you cannot stop breathing. On the hand rises a single hair—a lonely pulse, the vibration of nylon. The magical touch of someone’s hand. Distorted focus, encounter of untroubled joy, happiness of a quadruple mother, seven-headed children of the hydra crying for every slightest salvation. God, who never stops loving, cloud that never stops flowing, rhythm that never stops pulsing. India, which never sleeps. Hindu child, avatar of Shiva, flood of the holy river murmuring all the time (sound of the universe). Unlimited horizon of phosphorescent night, day when people left their concrete houses to raise simple structures (huts, ice houses on the white desert). First glimpse of green among blood-red auroras. Joyful are the people in simple dwellings.

The cigarette goes out. I light another.

The town begins with a lonely road among fields, along it run railway tracks breaking off silently—then a housing estate and a military unit, and next to it a center where I will spend a month and a half of my life (I arrived an hour ago). Then a turn to the right. Fence. The fence ends. To the left holiday homes, to the right single-family houses, guesthouses, and my favorite grocery-liquor store open 24 hours. A little further a kiosk—there I buy newspapers and sometimes cigarettes. Then the shopping promenade. Green Booth. Fish fry shops, and on the left side another grocery-liquor store. That’s already the canal. To its other side leads a drawbridge operated from a funny blue-and-white booth. Beyond the bridge to the left, on the other side of the canal. Lighthouse. Port. You can see the beloved beach on the left side. Now back—straight beyond the bridge—confectionery and paid beach—I don’t like this place… …then a turn to the right. I pass the center and turn left. This entrance leads to the beloved beach—before that some garden—they have great beer with syrup there. Already on the beach. Sea. Gulls, sometimes on the dunes you hear a skylark. Night sky above the sea (waves). I sit and reflect.

The cigarette went out. Last pack. I reach for the bag. I pack the wooden sailor’s pipe—alone, I’ll meet the girl later (apart from Robert Plant, beloved lips—a short acquaintance ended by a local show-off. Did he have more to offer? I doubt it). Slowly I inhale… I don’t have to hide from anyone—at this hour there’s no one on the beach—I can’t stand the day here in season—fry-up of people—Baywatch—terrible idea. They only ran away from work, I ran away from life.

Lungs of the night. Deep, steady breath. At once gentle and full of reverie. Distracted eye of non-being (god’s vagina on the horizon, emerging from behind a very high mountain)—you will never embrace chaos. Yet this is peaceful chaos—sweet pipe dreams and reverie. Nights over a book about a butcher killer bought for a zloty in the cheap book club, or something like that. Lonely bench burdened with three people (first cigarette, first wine, first joint, first sex). Two of them already breathe East Berlin air. I am here.

Lungs of the night. A pair of eyes slowly closes, neon goes out. There remains the irresistible impression that I know more than I knew before, though I cannot prove it with any thesis, rule, or formula. You must experience it to understand that something in you has changed. There is no formula for the wisdom of imagination. Fairy tales are needed, childlike curiosity is useful in youthful life. I will never renounce the child within me, that feeling will remain in me for a very long time. I want a sea grave. Oceanic grave—part of a coral reef or the beginning of wonderful life bursting with a riot of colors. I would like to see the ocean, to become the ocean. It’s not about cheap entertainment.

Never wear a watch.

…Straight into the heavens—it is hard to describe the colors I pass, rising into pure space—it is hard to find words for the feelings flowing through me. Sweet emptiness—who holds the helm of the cosmic machinery?—I only set the stars in motion and spin endless planets around them. I saw Orion rise and set. Commands for hypochondriacs, faulty strike, collision with the mind—it breaks into pieces in a silent scream. The gaping mouth of night is directed at the phallic silhouette deep in the garden. The garden blooms, birds sing. Clap your hands, for you will soon die. Instead of a ball, a sheet of paper with the words “Bang Bang!!!”—a poor joke of the event’s animator. I look beyond the boundaries of the universe. I see the finger of the ideal being—again the same pair of eyes. The neon lights up again. The cigarette goes out. Eyes full of green flowing in divine streams.

Never wear a suit and shiny shoes.

I got up this morning, and my cat died. Marine awakening of an ancient god. He stretched and yawned loudly. He announced his arrival and demanded altars. The burnt offering already awaits you, lord. Nuns on promenades, kiosks, sexy accessories, Agata, dirty sidewalk, sink. The fridge full of beer, but nothing to eat. Wait until I open the bar. Night drive, forest, road, light in the car, loneliness, reflections, bottle of wine and ganja under the seat, discussion…always and everywhere…Dangerous ride into the center of the burning brain. The brain hides ambrosia, the fluid of salvation, orange cargo, spilled flash. Shiver. Inner arousal. You yourself are your own aphrodisiac. You hide the whole pharmacy. You are the medicine. Panacea.

Sunday morning. All the children in church—we are on the beach. What can we do on such a beautiful Sunday morning? Get drunk. Recall the times of great explorers and legends of rivers of gold. They really flow in the blackest minds. Veins. Screw god. Lie down next to me, rest with your divine hair, wrapping me in cold—it pierces the brain—this is the harshest frost—two souls flow into each other. I fill you. You complete me.

(scene protoplasmic a little further on) Ten minutes to one. The silence is so overwhelming that I hear every drag of the cigarette, the flap of a bat’s wings (tears a nerve). I feel every breath of night. Stream of light (every stroke is divine nirvana). Lips go numb. Battle of birds. Night flock of geese (flock of night geese). Gulls? Screech. Sirens of doom. I am Belial. I see everything through every fog. No fog will stop me. My eyes are god’s eyes. Mirror of knowledge wrapped in infinite layers—no one dares unwrap. Not even the emperor. Sex. Five to one until half past one. Apparent silence of stars.

Sunday morning—could you contemplate clouds all day? Watch their journey toward the horizon or their escape from its break? Girls on the beach, night club—daytime emptiness, sailor buying cigarettes, mother with child entering the sea. What could I do? I walked on the roof, close to the gutter, passed antennas of the night sky, slipped past bird nests. Night creature full of indescribable grace and focus. I could not fall. What could I do? Sing, son. Give praise to the creator. This is not mass. An orgy begins and everyone is invited. Anyone can come, if they penetrate the plush wall. Tear off the top layer, slowly.

I began writing a new bible. The new bible is not too long. Anyone can read it. Reach for the highest shelf. From sunrise to sunset locked in a pyramid. I feel the gamma flash and my ego shoots straight into the stars. I become Orion’s companion. Slowly I sip the drink of frivolous gods. Elixir of youth locked in the flower of stars.

We gathered at the Night Club at 4:00. Full moon, few clouds, many stars. In a moment the sun will rise—some night or other—a lonely star in the swirling clouds twinkles defiantly. We will set out by ship. We will not discover new stars, but new oceans and islands bathed in sunlight. Gentle waves of the coconut dune smooth the mind, and the eyes see everything hidden. The brain dies. The soul is born.

Unknown lands open before us like an orchid blooming in autumn sun. I recall New Year’s Eve in the forester’s lodge. Seven men and one woman. Crates of beer and barrels full of wine in the cellar. Shotgun. Frightened squirrel. Mushrooms. We brew an infusion (Retinal Panacea decoction). Oh, traveler… I invoke you. I call upon the names of god. It’s fine.

The cuckoo clock regularly strikes precise, pillow-like metaphors—the curtains caught the sunny wind and are now sails of infinity carrying ships to ruin or straight toward lands full of forests, meadows and rivers, copper lakes, legends of treasures and explorers.

Okay, okay… so as I said, she probably hasn’t woken up yet and is waiting for a phone call. If I call, she will probably come, but how long will I have to wait before she picks up the receiver in a half-conscious, grateful gesture. How long must I wait for her wisdom, for the awareness of existence and co-existence? How long? I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to destroy her little safe world, but I will be forced to show her the universe. My calling summons me to the ultimate act. I will give her this pill. I will lead her into my own mind.

She came the next day, as usual properly dressed. I barely dragged myself out of bed (12:34) and looked like a crumpled pillow over which someone carelessly drank tea and smoked a cigarette. I looked at her, embraced her at the waist, rasped hoarsely: we’re going out, and pushed her out the door, following right behind. As usual I stopped to admire the views. She did not look. Forever bored rationalist, whose lessons at school suffice for all knowledge and philosophy. An angel unaware that she has wings, unable to lift her feet above the ground, bound by opinions and ideologies. An angel I pity. Will she take it, or not? Boundless trust.

All the little animals awakened from their sweet sleep fill the clearings with silent smiles.

She says: Every note is the core of the universe, a trembling needle of a pulsating wave—every rustle is visible. Invisible world revealed—entering worlds I stop—oh light: Mother of heavenly space, sower of everything—arranger of space—nonlinear Buddha—mandala of madness—you play notes—they all sound at once—all possible sounds ring—symphony of infinite undulation—delicate as the blue wave of soma and powerful as the sudden collapse of all mountain peaks in their snowy glory and winter sun, like the release of energy in the retina. Kaleidoscopic heavenly goddess straightens her finger in a graceful gesture—sets planets in motion— sounds whirl through the whole head, to all corners of the world, fill all space, our words dissolve into thousands of sounds, lose earthly meaning. Our thoughts sound whining and howling, lamenting primordial hymns to ancient gods, knocking and swaying like gentle waves of soma—fluid, continuous and metallic sound—dry and unbroken—one note suspended in time. The Fetus of the Mother of Heavenly Space fills the whole, her sons fight with treacherous children in the universe, mirror on the edge of time bends space, and its soft children march in one rhythm. Prolonged sound still resounds…

She met the Creator.

Lazy days by the beach, right on the crest of dunes, delicate scent of incense scattered by the wind. Straw hat shields from prying eyes. We soak up the sun. She understood. I really didn’t want to destroy her little world—probably fitting for little girls. Though she is already 18. I lie on the grass staring at the moon, and she mumbles something into my sleepy ear.

(July/August 2001)