A small re-run of all our 2009-2010 titles has appeared. If you’re interested in buying any of the books, the price is 5€ per book. For a full list of titles available see: https://newpolishbeat.wordpress.com/starsze-tytuly/
Contact: aj_kaufmann[at]yahoo.com
PayPal only (+ shipping). We’d rather not ship outside of European Union, but if you’re living elsewhere, and need a book or two, contact A.J. and we’ll see what can be done.
Two albums so far – grab them both!
http://newpolishbeat.bandcamp.com/
Joseph Reich is a social worker who lives with his wife and
fourteen year old son in the high-up mountains of Vermont.
He has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals
both here and abroad, been nominated seven times for The Pushcart Prize,
and his books in poetry and cultural studies include, “If I Told You To Jump
Off The Brooklyn Bridge” (Flutter Press) “A Different Sort Of Distance”
(Skive Magazine Press) “Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life
& Times Of The Man Sawed In Half” (Brick Road Poetry Press)
“Drugstore Sushi” (Thunderclap Press) “The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians”
(Fomite Press) “The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end
of the world” (Fomite Press) “The Hole That Runs Through Utopia” (Fomite Press)
“Connecting The Dots To Shangrila: A Postmodern Cultural Hx Of America” (Fomite
Press) “A Case Study Of Werewolves” (Fomite Press) “Taking The Fifth And Running
With It: a psychological guide for the hard of hearing and blind” (Broadstone Books)
“The Rituals Of Mummification” (Sagging Meniscus Press) “Magritte’s Missing Murals:
Insomniac Episodes” (Sagging Meniscus Press) “The Hospitality Business” (Valeviel Press)
“How To Order Chinese During A Hostage Crisis: Dialects, Existential Essays, A Play,
And Other Poems” (Hog Press) “The American Book Of The Dead” (Xi Draconis Books)
“American Existentialism” (Tuba Press) “From Premonition To Prophecy”
(Delinkwent Scholar Press) “an eccentric urban guide to surviving”
(Analog Submission Press) “Statutes Of David” (Pen & Anvil Press)
“The Trouble With Authority” (Makeshift Press) can check out site, coming soon!
POEMS
Proverbs (or the nature of noir)
:: a pained grin on the dripping soaking milkman
:: the leftover forgotten pretty girls from vaudeville
:: a parasol left in the gutter of a southern belle
:: burlesque dancer with her hourglass figure who instantly
triggers all the businessmen in their plume of smoke to start
howling and feening and seething and drooling like a pack
of pavlov’s dogs (increase their libido and fantasy worlds)
and instantly automatically ameliorates and heals all their
conflicts and problems and helps them to get on with their
miserable menial realities and stagger off drunken on 7 & 7’s
to improve their daily functioning and meet their quotas and dream of
their long-term targeted goal of that quintessential corner office in heaven
:: the sailor in his all-white uniform in the broken bamboo
night will fall in love with strangers; a girl he thinks he
might love, while simultaneously falls out of love with
his mortality and will never ever really quite return home
:: rain falls on the rickshaw
:: we are all absurd strangers in a dark
movie theater obscurely watching our lives
flashing right in front of us on some chaotic screen
:: the combustive, churning wheels of the train
exact same as the built-up collapsible waves
:: idiotic strangers brooding, worrying having a difficult
time making the distinction between work and play
:: our childhood was like some brilliant keen
surreal freakshow of a haunted holy life of leisure
:: when we get older we slow dance
in the stirring echoes of a conch shell
:: naked incestuous cousins eavesdropping
like kettles seething through the keyhole
:: through the rainy portholes they lift
the blinds to the sunny deck of the
splendid cruise ship on the ocean
:: dreams are the isolated imagistic division
of visions and the exact dynamic as well as
opposite deconstruction of the imagination
leaving one to question deep down the
meaning and purpose of their existence
:: i love for the most part how trains and buses
just creep through the deep dark haunted evening
and then suddenly just show up like some saintly dream
coming out a nightmare in the milky dawn, bleary-eyed, reborn
:: i love when they spoon you
forks & knives not included
:: we fall in love with noir because we are just barely hanging on
and all those things in life which just always seem to elude us
while it appears as well to touch on our everyday existence of
brooding, perseverating, and even situational depression, and in
reality we all suffer and are all so alone, isolated, distant, engaged
in that lone journey of ‘quiet desperation,’ not too dissimilar to
the nature of gangster films which always seems to contain an element
of poetic justice, as deep down inside (can never accomplish in real life
because of societal norms or what freud alludes to in his “civilization and
its discontents” as primal, animalistic urges that get repressed) and those who
sincerely deserve it, as well as asking for it, and symbolic and representative
even cathartic of people in our reality and past experiences who should have
just been ‘ended.’ the same holds true with westerns and that instant medium
and connection with escapism, while in essence (when we break through all
our “role playing”) are so impulsive and primitive, searching for that deep
down rare justice which for the most part contains an element of violence
:: a well-made western helps one to get to bed
cause simply deals with the living and the dead
devoid of all those little things in between
which has a tendency to confuse and
bring about a certain amount of dread
:: it seems like in all of those ole time black & white
hollywood films they were having a damn good time
(actually had clever quips) like the first exhibitionists
(what i had heard too were pretty wild & promiscuous)
:: politics involves a certain amount of addiction
:: the vietnamese and portuguese fisher-
men return for their bundle of heroin
:: the fortune cookie reads–
rock & roll does not exist anymore
:: it’s not so much that you care that they steal from you
(as have simply gotten used to) it’s the trigger to that
violation and original betrayal of trust and truth
:: do we ever really recover from the open
wounds of betrayal or just become a bit more
calloused, cautious looking out for the deal of devils?
:: dogs prove to be man’s best friend
(with their protective look of sympathy
and compassion) during thick and thin
:: those true-blue troubled youth were spiritually neglected
and abused way before any of those clinical conclusions
:: nothing equals the power of a child’s imagination
almost making a spiritual connection with the
transcendent gods and spirits around them
:: it is true those liberals can be mean, alienating, and cruel too
because believe (ironically are looking for something to believe
in too) you don’t fit into their very strict and narrow specific traits
and characteristics and overall prerequisite imagined description
or live up to what they delusionally conclude in their insular
and exclusive often privileged elitist definition to be virtue
:: often those who don’t get your sense of humor
turn paranoid, defensive, and hostile while ironically you
were coming from a place of mad spirit and kindness and compassion
:: when you deconstruct and break down language
often it runs parallel and consistent with the
contradictions of human nature and behavior
:: women know their exact influence over men
:: an instant panacea to all the bullshit of existence…
The True-Blue Sisyphus
Wife told me there are really cool headphones
these days and I should go out and get a pair
completely unaware I preferred the good ole
days when I couldn’t afford to be cosmopolitan
and chic and used to have to scotch tape the batteries
into the back of my walkman keeping it all in, practically
holding it all together all the way out to the last final
stop in Coney Island of my poverty-stricken wild
ramshackle existence when the last of the drunken
hungover lights of The Wonder Wheel were fading
and draining from the desperate evening sifting in
to a bleak desolate sun rising blaring blinding me
through the windows of the subway finding myself
experiencing and making a difference in my long-lost
ridiculous anonymous reality; my only true-blue com-
panions the blind men and stray dogs and wild sqwauk
of seagulls leading me to my lonely linoleum hovel at
the end of the boardwalk not knowing a living breathing
soul except for the Ultra-Orthodox Jews in their Abraham
Lincoln top hats and Charlie Chaplin rags barely able to
keep up with my rent after a full night of hustling a grave-
yard yellow cab too tough and mad to be scared of any man
as they all just seemed see-through and pussy and obscene
getting used to sleeping all day then heading later in the day
bleary-eyed baked back to the trains all the way to the end
of the world 11th avenue Hell’s Kitchen to slip a 10 under
the partition (a mandated custom and tradition) to grease
the sleazy mafia dispatchers just to rent a taxi for the mad
summer evening to pay my token $125 for this ‘Myth
of Sisyphus’ slave existence only to be able to afford
to pay my rent for the last home at the end of the world
and pick up a quart of Ballantine and the paper to find
out what happened to The Yankees the night before.
Bruce Lee
Wow, I guess I really am like every other freaking guy
when I got nothing else to talk about, how I always rely
and fall back on Bruce Lee when I got alcoholics in my
kitchen without pigment in their skin because of all the
drugs they claim they are no longer doing, and if not
casing the joint to steal your wife’s wedding ring along
with bonds they cannot exchange and other memories
know in the middle of the job of course are going to
break their agreement (and everything they swore
on most likely based on their chemical dependency)
and are going to ask for half of their pay and claim
they have earned it after ridiculously dropping every
can of paint and literally every nut bolt and tchotchke
and every glass animal in the glass animal collection
and of course consistently like every last one of
them because they never learned to listen and
ironically the exact reason why they’re in the
condition that they’re in when told them please
if had any questions to feel free to come on
in, but they have too much pride and passive
aggressive and resent the position that they’re
in (are too much men) and paint everything
you didn’t ask them and have to send my wife
the angel that she is back into town to pick up
a whole other gallon and want to get paid extra
for the time they put in; I swear ain’t making
any of this up (I guess minus what we have to
spend to pick up a whole other gallon of paint
and gallons for the gas and a gallon for our time
and patience) so I guess I just always fall back
on Bruce Lee for all the blatant reasons and most
necessary and desperate subconscious of meaning
of just wanting to murder every last single one of them
and tell them how he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him
and clearly the quickest reflexes, and no one ever defeated
him even when they all in real life jumped from dark alleys
to try and challenge him, and was just trying to get on
in his everyday existence from these ignorant stubborn
murdering madmen who were trying to do him in and
when they pick up their drop cloths all of course for
effect and hand you their cards as if to suggest if
we should ever happen to know anyone please
don’t ever hesitate to think about them…
Somewhere In The Early Seventies
There wasn’t anything wrong with every Friday
night as a kid watching The Brady Bunch
and then The Partridge Family.
There wasn’t anything wrong a little later on
watching The Love Boat and Fantasy Island
whose purpose was to teach us a ridiculous
life lesson and eventually
provide us hope
for the future
where
the climax
and resolved conflict
was all narrated
by Meryl Steubing
and Ricardo Montalban.
Somewhere in between was
The Mod Squad and Charlie’s Angels
not exactly sure what that had to do with anything
lying back in that little patch of backyard in the suburbs
with our thick movie star sunglasses on and large
menu of tin foil wide open in front of our faces
to make us look more slick and sophisticated
for sweet 16’s and bar-mitzvahs
and summer camp reunions
taboo to talk about those pretty rich cousins
who had turned into junkies and spoiled
daughters next door you grew up with
(there always felt something
so incestuous about it or more
so just intimate and affectionate)
who you always thought so gorgeous
with their ability to be color-coordinated
and match their sky-blue evening gowns
with sky-blue eye shadow
their suntans and bright
white high heels…
whose parents bought them
a condo in The Upper East Side
and still couldn’t get away from
all the drama; from still doing bong hits
or gigolos who they thought they had fallen in
love with and ended swindling them for all their savings
like Mets games that went on forever
and knew they’d always find
a way of blowing it…
Convent
I remember reading one of Nietzsche’s
recently discovered unknown writings
going over of course that theme about
living in a world without God on some
park bench outside one of those high
rise projects in Harlem and it was
for the most part on a fine chilly
autumn morning with dappled
colored leaves gathered on the asphalt
and it was my job to check on and deliver
a monthly social security check to this fine
kind older black woman in her simple and spare
apartment with only a couple pictures on the wall
and was so softspoken and grateful and looking back
at those few moments i used to spend with her when
i used to do home visits maybe perhaps that’s just what
this existence is all about as without a doubt meant the world.
Hope is a Hot Air Balloon Flying by the Power Lines
Hope is a hot air balloon flying by the power lines,
so don’t fly too high
or you’ll fry,
but if you go too low
you might as well be
the crying kitty
hanging by one claw
on the high wire,
and it wouldn’t
be a pity to
let go.
H_NGM_N
This poem is killing me.
By the twenty-sixth incorrect guess,
I’ve tallied up my
head, torso, arms, legs, fingers, toes
and gallows,
but since vowels were disemboweled,
I’m dead.
Junkyard
The junkies live in the junkyard,
trapped in homes of a scrapheap.
They are stripped of all precious base metals
and collapsed copper wire veins to bare bones
and sold,
until wreckers crush
the rest of us
into fist sized blocks.
Perfume
She is never
absent from
my presence,
when I am
awarded with
the present
of her scent
embedded in
my fabric,
so when she
is away,
then I can’t
help but
smell myself.
Red Rose
I gave her
the final rose
on the bush
but she let
each petal
wilt away…
…she loves me,
she loves me not,
she loves me,
she loves me not…
Before the first
frost of winter,
the beheaded stem
regenerated one
more flower…
…she loves me,
she loves me not.
Designer Skin
Some people
are comfortable
in their own
skin,
and others
feel safer wrapped
in strapping
latex,
but a few
folks feel better
wearing the skin
of others.
These citizens
are referred
to as
serial killers.
Who are you wearing?
Vampires Suck
I don’t care
if she makes me
cum or bleed,
as long as she
sucks the life
out of me.
***8/6/2019 update***
We have located all 22 home recorded tracks Adam cut between April-September 2006, and the albums are now available for your listening/buying pleasure.
***9/4/2018***
We have located a copy of the “Home Recordings Volume One” CD-R and uploaded it to youtube. We are still on the lookout for the “Lullaby for Madeleine” EP – it’s the only part of the puzzle missing. If you can help – contact us. Enjoy!
Nebular Silence NS-59
Lanzamiento exclusivo de Nebular Silence
Exclusive release by Nebular Silence
“Songs from Red Earth” es un álbum de poesía y arte sonoro, un conjunto de demos electroacústicos grabados en un teléfono en Hackney, Londres, entre el 5 y el 10 de julio de 2019. Todas las canciones fueron improvisadas en el lugar, y en su esencia, son exploraciones poéticas del punk, rock and roll, blues y vanguardia. Rastros de noise, jazz y ambient también se pueden detectar en las líneas improvisadas de guitarra eléctrica presentes en las grabaciones. Las letras están basadas en libros de poesía y cuadernos privados de Adam, escritos/publicados entre 2008 y 2013. En el mundo de la poesía no hay nada más honesto, privado e íntimo que este álbum, probablemente tampoco empeore, es decir, si estás acostumbrado a perfeccionar la música de los balbuceos, odio a la vida e imperfección. Entonces sube la tuya.
“Este es el ocaso de la era de Urano
La era de Urano
Urano, Urano
¡Deja entrar a la luz de la luna!”
Tuli Kupferberg.
—
“Songs from Red Earth” is a poetry/ sound art album, a set of electroacoustic demos recorded on a phone in Hackney, London between July 5th and 10th of 2019.
All the songs were improvised on the spot, and in their essence, they are poetic explorations of punk, rock’n’roll, blues, and avantgarde. Traces of noise, jazz, and ambient can also be detected in the improvised lines of electric guitar present in the recordings. The lyrics are based on Adam’s poetry books and private notebooks, written/published between 2008 & 2013. In the poetry world it doesn’t get any more honest, private, and intimate than this album, it also probably doesn’t get any worse, that is if you’re used to perfect radio babble music and hate life and imperfection. Then up yours.
“This is the Sundown of the Age of Uranus
The Age of Uranus
Uranus, Uranus
Let the Moonshine in!”
Tuli Kupferberg
Para más archivos de audio de Adam Majdecki-Janicki:
—
For more Adam Majdecki-Janicki audio archives:
http://adammajdeckijanicki.bandcamp.com
released July 21, 2019
Adam Majdecki-Janicki – voice, acoustic and electric guitars, filtered congas (6), synth (9), lyrics, music.
Fragmentos de “Han ivh nur deine Liebe” (vinilo 78rpm) y “Golden Earrings” (CD) aparecen para acentuar la lírica poética original.
—
Snippets of “Hab ich nur deine Liebe” (78rpm vinyl) and “Golden Earrings” (CD) are featured to accent the original poetic lyrics.
Agradecimientos especiales a Nebular Silence por creer en este proyecto y a los editores originales de mi poesía: Kendra Steiner Editions, Shadow Archer Press (RIP Gail), Deadbeat Press, Virgogray Press, New Polish Beat y Erbacce Press (Reino Unido).
—
Special thanks to Nebular Silence for believing in the project and to original publishers of my poetry: Kendra Steiner Editions, Shadow Archer Press (RIP Gail), Deadbeat Press, Virgogray Press, New Polish Beat and Erbacce Press (UK).
Bullshit
I keep having that flashback
child on a viaduct cracked from sunflowers
under a red star, dreaming
of concrete landscapes shifting
factories caving in
smokestacks falling
proud blocks giving way
to the forest
the child erecting its eyes
to a new pedestal, one its parents
didn’t live to see – though they didn’t even
die – they simply vanished
but now the sun is shining
free radio’s playing music
through simple headphones
chants of freedom erase
equal slogans, make room
for love, replacing blades of unity
sole party, now dismembered, looks through the cracks
at sunflowers calling bees
to create simple food
out of nothing
for the masses to feast on
it invested in arms much too long
embracing too many people
let them finally
have a taste of freedom
before the new oppressor comes around
was this child even me?
I remember vanishing too, around 1989
with the last wave of protest
too loud to resist much longer
I was drinking bold juices
of West, back then
waving banana machine guns
I keep having that flashback
my drinking pals call the devil
I know it’s just a mirage
dead, misleading image
though from my father’s LPs
I learned of many fine people
creating in those sad cold ages, too bad
they didn’t have the context
their western contemporaries lived in
and taken out of our context
all they and we ever did
was bullshit
Last Candle
we’ll melt that last candle, I promise,
it’s a trip to the sun, no less,
amazing feature, silver screen creature
you’re the prettiest one, I took you with
me, everywhere I went, I’m sorry for the
people you had to meet, but time is golden
and gold is power, and I haven’t done
anything yet to acquire
whatever it takes for success, success
is an empty page, but folks
believed me, and now I’ve got
debts I once was free of, I promise, it’s a trip
to the south where we’ll watch African
moons rise over rootsy backdrops
and I’ll never rhyme again, unless it
makes me some dollar, unless it takes
me back home, when we both were
adorable children, favorites of our
families, but since then I’ve become
outcast poet, and you’ve been inspiration
to many, in many bedrooms, waking up
the monsoon that lies beside me
feels good, but I know it’s not mine
though time will come to cruise
that last stony night, from then on it will be
perfect golden daybreaks, clouds
serving grapefruit tea, white coffee
with freshly picked snowflakes,
we’ll reside in that last
free island, perhaps we’ll find that
lost particle, launch further expeditions
if only you decide to stay somewhere
the free spirit you are
I might finally join you, can’t you see
you’ve made my boots weary
and they won’t lead me naked
stoned and dazed forever
thru a palace of childhood you try hard
to envision
I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing
as a palace, it’s more of a park
but by loose definition
and most certainly not where we landed
I promised a trip to the sun
no cheap ersatz will do
though I’m sure you already
feel golden, always free
from connections
Side Streets
without trips, drunk alone
the next line should be something
that ends with cobblestone
routine kicks in, or it’s only
the sound of silence,
anyway I don’t believe I’m special
same feelings as you
same flesh and spirit
perhaps mine is easily locked
in a bottle, that’s why I’m
drinking alone, after another
idiot’s day, the next line should end
with something that says “stay”, preceded
with please, but I knew she wouldn’t, so here
I am with my guitar, trying to write
a song, but the chords are messed up
and I’m a funny guy with no job
who pretends he’s really
acting, maybe that’s why the last
line should say distracted
haven’t felt that low since I landed
here, here is Paris, 2 A.M.
looking outside my window
I see couples sharing the street
but there’s no one I know outside
so there’s no need to move
and as I find another needle, I guess
the chorus might need a fiddler
or the intro, some sad East European
notes, did you know that every country
has a blue note of its own? ours is played by the
war drum, awakening our women
frightening last survivors, it beats
across the border, every time a child
is born in enemy’s city
we weep, without tears
but you better stick to songs, this last
dialogue should end with “wrong”
or “war is wrong”, but I’m shooting
junk in a dirty hotel room that remembers
both wars, then Korea, Vietnam and everything,
not even knowing who I am
except that this girl came to teach me
how it’s like to be alone
in a city of a million friends
that’ll forget your grave
once you slip over its
side streets
Reputation
you’ve got to earn your reputation
write everywhere
live the day with inkaust roses
blooming in the rearview mirror
fall asleep with death by your side
in the same dirty bed
where you screwed her first, midnight jazz
pumping wild, limitless, into the
coma of sunrise, where your first
words were written, screamed
against the hospital confinement
later nursery, school and prison
still you scream, to earn your reputation
poems are bread, life is the coffee
take a bite, sip the enlightenment
cup by cup, slice after slice
don’t feed it to birds, they’d die
from the exhaustion, unlike you
they still need the power to fly
they’re not confined, unless you count
the bright blue dome, cliché turning
wheel, advertising sign
whose reputation were you living?
does it really matter?
the only question is open books
in the chimney, pistols in the bathtub
shooting sterile tiles, in another
hospital, old, either going mad, or expecting
another child – you’re no one
until you prove your infection
once you do that, you’re healed
back to society
living on prescriptions, shooting sure
shadows at sundown, talking to the
omnipresent priest, arranging
your wedding, once you’re sure
you made it, the world will make you happy
whether you like it or not
you’ll become the fragment
everybody wanted
canned supermarket sun
baby in the cart
whether sold or stolen
it doesn’t really matter
when the graveyard shift
yawns back
at the awakening city
Kid with a Radio
I sat by the radio at night
never was conscious in school
the next day, dreaming of an
autumn Sunday, writing
lyrics, recording
music I then called obscure
from times I can’t remember
times I’ll never live in
filling up the dark, dimming
lights for love, I never had
a friend, but transistor lights
and oceans, though all we really had
was sea, fishermen telling legends
of a frozen passage
I listened to them, vacationing along
wishing I was back in school
so I could write in chemistry notebooks
sketches of a future song
I wrote down riffs, made notes
on song structures, was humming
imaginary refrains, I never thought
I’ll make it, but I kept streaming
phasing through the ether
clouding with the night wind
morphing with the currents
and so they took me – to far off
lands I never thought existed
with hungry girls that never
really knew me, anyway, the pearls
kept falling from their stylish neckties
jewelry, necklaces, all they ever wanted
I bought them, risking my breakfast
but hey, I don’t regret getting thin
especially in Berlin, where I’ve heard
they’ve got the best scene – bullshit,
they’ve got fat fingers
purging through the madness
urging with the rubble
same thing every town
wrapped in wallpapers
damned boys
who wish they were as young as me
still willing to change
especially myself
still willing to run
not from, but against the system
British of Me
sadly
I lost track
of some memories, I no longer
blaze them
with a chewing gum torch
and carry them through the
main square
things became simpler, I no
longer need them, so I let
them pass
people will love me, those
who always did, no need
to smile back again
encountering loss
grief, despair, I’m flying now
where no eye flares
no fire ever rages
it’s oddly calm, on this cloud
I’ve packed my sorrows
in thunders, let’s let them roll
all night, until they’re full
feasting on trees
I climbed as a child
looking at forests
that once proudly grew here
back into tears of the spider
weaving his clear-cut sunweb
who am I to see this
let alone do it – I mean gazing
at eternity, which is not the
dark void
some sad monks want it
to be, rather a flash of steam
from the first train rolling
down American shores
the undiscovered continent
waits to shed the green skin
succumb to steel brave sunrise
forged by ugly children
who thought they’d found their
paradise – things are not what they seem,
and I am on a war path
years have taught them nothing
but pillage and murder
addictions and diseases
let me drink my tea
so British of me, darling
It Must Be Spain
I think I’ll try write down
anything different
from what I usually read
in so-called rebels’ books
private editions, limited print runs
obituaries in flesh – their words, as mine so far,
were ordinary, we used
same dictionaries, obviously
speaking different tongues
all sadly flat,
they probably thought we’re
the same, midnight beatnik daredevils
haunting suicide bridges
documenting the road
but then something struck me
and I moved away, no longer
insane, I exited stage
realizing we all write equal
as musicians we’ve scales
to stick to, we’ve got the margins
of sky, we can bend the rules
but never change them
we write the same,
no matter our history
so why we feel the need
to memorize our lives
as if they were essential
reading, no worries,
someone does that for us
not in earthly books
but on bronze literal columns, in
heaven, in invisible ink
and virgin kisses
where no words are laughable
imitable, combustible
and no publisher decides
what slogan should he stick
to your forehead
no writer writes you, no reader
reads you, no one is really
famous, but all the lines
are there, photographed
right down where we left them
you say it must be asylum
wings of failure bought you
I think it must be Spain
cause everything smells
so nice
Comprehended
at times I think
there’s a Buddha speaking
thru me, but thankfully
I put me back to ground
with casual smoke rings
irresistible neons
sleazy bars
proving there’s nothing
inside me, not even winds
howling thru abandoned
districts, in the town
where I was born, in cities
I lived thru, trams
going nowhere, shades
of people thumping
the sun, at times I think
it shines, like the moon,
in reflected light, but
speedily, stars cut me to size
I’m not like those people
and there’s not even nothingness
inside me, just biology
reproducing, endlessly searching
for meaning where there’s only
a road sign on a half-finished highway
saying “this” or “that” way, to my
half-finished journey
I haven’t even begun
who was I before coming down
on this world
on a pitiful drunken Sunday
my first Satori train
stopped at the wrong station
slicing thru sky
that dawns on my brain
like a twinkling bird of rebirth
flashing with the summer
on wings no human bought
no Buddha
comprehended
Courtesy of Via Kosmische netlabel and our beautiful curator, Izabella Schöner. Detailed info’s on album pages. 3 full-length releases from the years 2001, 2002, 2004, and 2005. Plans are to publish a small book/memoir about all those 2001-2007 audio/music/noise projects (before Adam started writing and publishing poetry in English in 2008, and released his debut studio LP “Second Hand Man” in 2011), and title it “Górczyn Kids”, after one of Brain Salad Underground albums. But time and circumstances have to permit, as things have never been as artistically busy as they are for us in 2019 – we barely find the time to breathe.
New Polish Beat 