Culture, Literature, news, Poem, poems, poetry, poezja, politics, Uncategorized


A gargantuan hole in my head
the truth is:
dark is my hair
the truth is:
human I am
the truth is:
I live on earth
the truth is:
no much else
the else is a hallucination
a daydream
a lie
king-size, bulky, mountainous messcommunication
a truth without the spell check

literature, Poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized


So what that I am useless
was I created for the use of
the party community family or church?

so what that I am useless talentless brat
or not, who cares

I splash things against the wall
in childish protest
it’s all deaf and reactionless anyway

the earth is invisible so it’s the cosmos
from my mundane despised perspective
it doesn’t seem to matter
it seems it’s all a lie then
nothing of me is being recorded in the fabric of infinity
I was born and I die
and I yell and that is pointless
quick explosion
stupid kid
among the silence



The more I postpone
the worse I feel
more bottled up
more unreal
I hate that weakness
this subjection of will
avolition of thought and desire
a stateless person in a stateless mind
can’t transcend the heaviness of my lazy being
the need of correctness
is driving me mad
the empty days are followed by nights

Art, poems, poetry

‘Aftermath in Polish”

When we got the brand new state allocation apartment

There was a meadow vis-a-vis

with few old ruined suburban houses

the meadow was enchanted and it belonged to the butterflies

but the houses were full of shattered glass

you could still find there some before war lost treasures

a fake silver napkin holder, a piece of alabaster

 or a better half of a broken oven tile or even,

if you were extremely lucky,

a stylish

orangeade bottle with long, elegant neck.
Now, there is no meadow, there is a concrete block and Lidl supermarket

     where you can get nice products brought to you by your former enemies.

Art, Culture, literature, short story, stories

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble /Immigrant Stories/

Immigrant Stories

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble.

When you are an immigrant, you are a cultural – nobody. That’s how I feel at least. I try to squeeze myself, cut myself, change myself, convince myself, but the only thing left is the emptiness and boredom of lifeless existence between the shelfs of Barnes & Noble, looking for an inspiration, for something to move me, to connect to my empty self. The days, the past, the now, and the future blend into a long, tasteless, boring vomit, divorced from any meaning. I don’t remember why I came here and what propelled me to take this unreasonable, stupid step. Maybe it was anger, I don’t know. My mind doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

Suicidal thoughts between Barnes & Noble shelfs. Suicidal thoughts in the Barnes & Noble elevator, suicidal thoughts on the Barnes & Noble first, second and the third floor.