"Broken is Beautiful Falling" (2009).

There is an unconscious fascination in watching the city drown, submerged in rising floods while young girls hum themselves into quiet tokens of hope. They pull along the narrow street tails, weaving through west-end truths, filling the brief intervals between the homeless and the damaged deals that strike in the shadows. Take the cabman to where consternation creatures run wild along the tarmac, involuntarily attaching agonized tears from neglected, vanished blocks to the illustrated remains of tired eyes. Here, the city is taken by hurt, where brokenness becomes a beautiful, endless falling.

Out on the outskirts, a child knows a life called devilish by the morning—a time of sorrow, longing, and fingers of native sun that think only of themselves, blessed in the exiled colors of thunder. This is the stormy sunrise of strange, vivifying melancholy, pouring warmth and power directly into the dead eyes of the town. Filled with pain, where the wait for strength, the suicide of streets, and years of bitter frost were merely islands of the self, I lived as one who was poor, wrong, and old enough to die like a dog: buried nameless, unthinkingly bleeding onto yet another child of the margins.

You always thought that vapor turned toward song in the end—a pulling dance from man to boy within a moonlight land of heart, believing the world could simply slip away as we performed another number, peeling our ears to listen. But laughter lies abandoned across the years, and progress remains inexistent. Those who knew a wonder greater than song found their flower-ships steered far away, driven by blows and fear toward falling fingers, while life’s sights blew a lone trumpet after midnight. Headlong into love, flashing with bright tears, comes a song of stillness moving ocean-wards through rosy, swelling nights. The tide keeps slapping against the treasure, yet no one feels united beneath that monstrous, all-seeing eye; no one feels rewarded, dying alone in sterile sorrows.

Look now at the lazy fly—my ugliest side—drifting down into azure nights and deep depression, taking steps toward a nimble bore, climbing patina trees fretful in the snow. I have never felt things quite this roughly in the steppes, where assembled tides of grief cast mantles over the psyche. The vigils on the ridge are finished, forever strange, just like the touch of her music as skeleton placentas ride around the stars and aged lands stretch unendingly. There remains only the quiet hope that life might still proceed into vast, unanswered territories of birds.

There is no reparation to be found. You countermand these mountains and hold another height, following his mind beyond the waves of hierarchy, imploring through twilights that outwear the stop signs. Sluggish bells bawl over broken sunshine and nipple-studded summer graves. Life is simply too long—defend it now, swinging up and beaming through speechless seas on heaven’s swift, wild footsteps until the moon appears as a mere reflection of feathers. Tired, cerulean arteries kneel at humbling walls while the hundred hands of night reach out to embrace you completely.

We once shared rum and pretty wishes on island-ideas of fault, restoration, and time. But you—my constant surfing angel, slipping on dust while aquariums crashed into the morning—you saw the intricate details of the sky. You spoke of sex, Indian massacres, pirate’s fuel, reefs, and shark skin, while the fishes echoed your grin. Then there was yourself: lost in expedition alongside balanced western minds, circling bravely for identity, diving straight into the death of ancient stars and mermaid horses, drinking cold salt-water, and fading out with a dying nebula. We existed a thousand tongues and roofs below, mere passers-by on a wrecked coast a year or two ago. What is the color of the town now, my cordial boat, as you keep sailing on?

At the Oberbaumbrücke, success means following the golden stairs, feeling the beat within the temple while fear brings love on wings of gloom. Moan—all of these things am I. The gleam of the nightfall lamp returns to a wild, burdened, cold twilight. Sick, I move through the world on hands and eyes, where touching brings stumbling archangels to weep. Love roams in a stranger's silence over tears and marble-full moon pyres, leaving only walls, one face, the sky, and lips murmuring: Berlin, second class. Here is a rare peace, and I seldom leave this place.

New walls rise every day, leaving every man shaking beside the railroad line. Polish winters are notoriously cruel—measuring passing trains, scraping off rust and old paint, exposing aluminum-swollen eyes and high-speed dancers on linear glass falling against every mirror. The next rebirth moves closer, resembling a terrible giant of bathroom-wall graffiti, the oppression of dogs caught in her camera lens as they lean into each other’s failures. We part ways with beloved folk, fighting phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends, delicate urban deaths, and the synthetic pastures of God. Time-zone fingers choke while cloths of flesh and dust uncover the room, suddenly stripped of its pride and amazed like you—the woman I will always lose and learn to lose again. Forgive the inconvenience, but this is a cupboard wasteland: uninhabited poet territory.

Here stands nobody's brother—a gray candle set against a cold sky, burning the dew of a dreamed horizon, dressed in symbolic birds, fevering a little more, sighing shriveled, dying in a colder groaning. It is a beautiful muscle where roses once slept in irrelevant patterns. Naphthalene’s bitter vapor casts the day into full, soft deliverance—a mourning summit I found, sang about, and held tight unto its demise. Waves of impotent walls and the pain of stone roads heal the whore again, asking for asphalt, for the stamped departure of the soul. Dark black glare, grief, and beautiful men yield to street love, where the colors of galvanized eyelids encase my sand into books of leisure and lanterns of pornographic pride. They shine through my window, vibrating with metallic death, stripping down to the magma bulk of ribbon starfish, while rain and spit pools collapse brittle in playmate fashion, hollowly wrapping humble souls in dreams. They are not my brothers, and I am sorry.

A long time ago, there were thirty strange people packed into a two-room apartment, Paris calling concise on the line: We'll get there shortly, just watering your gardens now, baby, don't cry, we're all alive in this crowd. And the pebbles, the swans, the orchestra fool playing alone—look at how his table is full of dew, spiderwebs, and the mirrors she wore for a dress. Oh, but that was a long time ago. I confess it has only turned for the worse since we had our best so long ago. Now I am your man, so I can relate to your sweet little mess of shoes, rings, guitar strings, whiskey bottles, and the razor's swing. A cool facade adorns the blue while thirty strange people crowd two small rooms, smoke and clouds billowing as seasons explode colorfully in my mind. The room is exploding too, but the mirrors will keep watch for you. Imploding is better for you anyway—far better than the immortal blues of a true scar.

Forgot to tell you that the "Intimate" EP is now on Spotify.

"The Shaman" EP now on Spotify!

"Saturn Bay" now out on Spotify!

PRJ Compilation Vol. V - Into The Motorik Void

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...