ero ero

koncept erogrotesek zastrzeżony. Wymyślony 21.4.10. i cały, cały mój.... (koncept. tak). erogroteska = miniatura erotyzująca z elementami groteski, które wkradają się wbrew moim najlepszym intencjom....

the idea of an erogrotesque is copyrighted (or might as well be). Thought it up today (21.4.10.), googled, and it's mine, my precioussss (idea. right). an erogrotesque = a more or less erotic drabble, with some 'grotesque' thrown in for a good measure - it keeps interfering, against my best efforts....

Gdyby ktoś nie zauważył, tłumaczenie jest dość swobodne.
If you didn't notice, the translations are... loose at best.

sobota, 18 grudnia 2010

I don't know. And I'm actually happy in not-knowledge. A rare thing, that. The rarest of pleasures. I enjoyed the touch without the drag of guilt and fear. I enjoyed the warmth, the scalding warmth of galloping blood, when - so very separately - we danced, faces flaming, breaths stuttering within ribcages, veins strained and visible caught against the skin. I enjoyed, and will not let that enjoyment be diminished. Not by awkwardness, not by shyness, not by thoughts of other worlds, other lives, other people. This moment, this warmth doesn't belong to anyone; too beautiful, too free.

It is time to be grateful again, and not to invisible gods, but to broken mortals, who took away my edges, making me laugh and laugh and laugh at the absurdity of my self-importance. My shyness and embarassment - mere forms now, cliches I don't feel, but I feel I'm supposed to.... forms and cliches filled by laughter and pulse. Accidents, imperfections, tugging up low-riding jeans, falling down from the stage, breaking the glass of the lonely.

I don't know. But I remember. Remembrance of the joy will take me through time enough - before it fades, so much will be touched by it, and thus, changed.

Nie wiem. I jestem szczęśliwa w tej niewiedzy. To nieczęste; nieczęsto doznawana przyjemność. Cieszyłam się dotykiem, bez męczącej winy czy lęku. Cieszyłam się ciepłem, gorączką zdyszanej krwi, gdy - tak bardzo osobni - tańczyliśmy, twarze w płomieniach, oddechy brzęczące w klatkach piersi, żyły napięte i uwięzione w klatkach skóry. Cieszyłam się, i nie dam zmniejszyć tej radości. Nie dotkną jej niezręczność ani nieśmiałość; ani też myśli o innych światach, innych życiach, innych ludziach. Ten moment, to ciepło nie należy do nikogo. Zbyt jest swobodne, zbyt piękne.

Kolejny moment wdzięczności - nie dla nieznanych bogów, ale dla kruchych śmiertelników, którzy wygładzają ostre kanty, budząc mój śmiech, śmiech, więcej śmiechu na widok własnej absurdalnej powagi. Moja nieśmiałość, mój wstyd - czyste formy, banały pozbawione emocji; nie czuję ich, tylko czuję, że powinnam czuć.... formy i frazy wypełnione dźwiękami śmiechu i tętna. Wypadki, niedoskonałości, podciąganie spadających dżinsów, spadanie ze sceny, tłuczenie szklanek samotności.

Nie wiem. Ale pamiętam. Pamięć tej radości wystarczy mi na dość, przeniesie przez czas - zanim wyblaknie, dotknie we mnie tak wiele, tak wiele zmieni.

piątek, 10 grudnia 2010

She liked these dreams, when closeness was a sweet certainty, with warmth possessing an edge unfamiliar from the waking world. The images were something all too rare; something to be missed, coveted, hoarded. The waking world wasn't nearly as generous as these occasional dreams of safety, never more than she could handle. Calm, she was then. Calm like waters of the lake, gently moving, with a barely-there rocking, like heart pumping, like the everyday in-and-out of breath.

poniedziałek, 6 grudnia 2010

Thank you and thank you again, my friends, who
make me feel less of an Any Body.
Might be attractive, but in this piece of meat
brain is a rare delicacy
and we delight in explorations
trips of the mind, stumbles of words
that lead to states of emergence of
enthusiasm, and flying colours of
thought which for a startling moment
suspends itself in mind-numbingly,

sobota, 4 grudnia 2010

I don't know why I drink. There are times when it's enjoyable, but it's not one of those.

It hurts me, it's very unhealthy right now, it's direct self-sabotage. I feel the voice in my throat, longing to explode, stifled by cheap wine. Me and a cautious extra step back.

Come here, take your medicine. Over and over and over again. Since you refuse to learn....

poniedziałek, 22 listopada 2010

He's so cute. Cannot imagine touching him, but his m i n d is a thing of beauty.

I fall in love with minds. Is it weird? You tell me. I can feel him, bright, a beacon. I try not to look too directly. That spark of contact is an indulgence, and a slightly improper one, at that.

I can see him feeling me, too. Maybe as a source of light as well - especially bright student - maybe differently, when I try not to watch those expressive hands. There's no fulfillment, nor can there be, but the desire is real enough, there enough. When he goes off on wild tangents of the intellectual, I'm there, right behind.

It leaves an awkward silence afterwards, with a side of 'what just happened' for those witnessing. To that, I am used. It's not a first time.

Quick-witted. What a pleasure to meet him - stretch my mental legs, go for a run just because.

wtorek, 9 listopada 2010

friends with benefits

Friends with benefits. Splendid a concept, isn't it?

Oh, much more innocent than you think. And much less, in a way, haven't decided yet.
There we were - both attracted, both not in the mood; not in the relationship mode. So we still talk, even after painful honesty; still flirt, accustomed to aforementioned honesty; still enjoy the spark, the flow of it. Anxiety has faded to background noise now - my only non-anxious reaction to a man who's not gay begins with him clearly stating non-threatening intentions. Something to work with, isn't it?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm using him. If so, he's not first; I've had several different kinds of 'friends' by now. But he seems to enjoy himself, so what the hell, there's no equality ever, anyway. I like having a public. I like slowdancing in a burning room. I like the drop of danger, as long as it stays precisely a drop.

I like others, as well. Which is just as well. Well within the concept.

A least step up from crushing on every possible gay. Huh.

niedziela, 7 listopada 2010

[menu]: feel free to

[choose your prison. Choose your poison. Choose your cage.
Choose your causes. Choose your battles. Choose your rage.
Choose your feelings. Choose your lovers. Your mistakes.

Choose your choices – feel free to, don’t forget
To bend, to pretend, to not regret
Quiet the voices, do what it takes.]

[remember, not choosing is still a choice]
[while struggling with the responsible mind,
retain your voice.]

[and while your at it, change the light bulb
and fix us some world peace]

[[and yes, feel free to freak out
on your own schedule]]

piątek, 5 listopada 2010

let me sweeten
the ideal, the ordeal, the
order of
let me write
things that only make
me smile, with no
purpose, like
aimless walking
through the park, let me
touch your wording
dot your Is
with the raindrops sliding wetly
from my hair.

let me ask you to
let me
let me know you'll say yes

[obligatory irony so that
I won't take myself too
seriously. safeguarding
the soft]

wtorek, 2 listopada 2010


What's missing? melody. who wants to make an honest singer out of me?

I caressed you so much with thought
my hands aren't steady anymore
Before, I said I wasn't ready -
I'm not.

And still the truth was worth a shot
or maybe we've just gotten greedy
too needy, rushing words forgotten
that cost a lot.

I kissed you with my mind's eye
I cannot look at you
I touched you - phantom fingers
and now I'm falling through
we grabbed each other tightly
but said we won't hold on
don't wanna be together
don't wanna be alone

second verse missing - maybe still to come?

niedziela, 31 października 2010

confessions of a (n energy) vampire

It was never decided - am I, or am I not, a vampire?

I was told, once, that I give as much as I take. I don't always see it that way, not often, anyway - but - self accusation (vampire!) only works when it's a bad thing.

I try to be a one conscientous vamp. Teeth are mostly retractable. There are some eyes I can't hide from, but others are fooled.

I never feed off one person only.

I fed last night. Worlds of glances and gazes, touches - accidental and not-so-much but essentially, wonderfully meaningless.

The beauty of the stage - you can do anything, as long as you bow at the end.

It's enough, even when it makes you want more.

And later on, I fed off words. Reminded myself of fears, with good reason. Reminded myself of beauty, too.

I'm full to bursting. I want to use it, before the high dissipates.

środa, 27 października 2010

fuck blending in

nerves on a slowburn. bleeding bender-blender. "I'm uncomfortable" - such a fucking safeword, but however much out of comfort zone it was, I wouldn't give it up. Does it show too much? does it say too much? [is there a 'too much' to say or show? is it there even if I don't see?] You'll see whatever it is you see, and I almost don't fucking care, so it's almost a relief. In the world of almosts, you take what you can get.

Also, the cute lecturer and the unnerving student, vol. 1, 2, 3 [uncensored, imperfect]

Lecture: penetration

Fill me, full
fill me with
meaning, so
embedded in the
very air I breathe
stab it inside the
very flow of blood
until it shows up
in the writing on my walls
marks on my forehead
lettering littering
the sensuous inside of my

[I carry advertisement beneath my
Wanna suck them and taste the ink?]

Lecture: Immersion

Flow of thought, chilly against my lips
Sweetly pours over feeling, reeling, revelling
in revealing nothing but
the need to breathe in
the water, liquified
wordy, otherworldly
[and how nice for you!]

Lecture: Impression

Read it again.
Look me in the eye
I'm buying it
[romantic confession of a
consummated consumer]
I bought it thoroughly
I want it again.
Pleasure of denial
ain't it fun? and oh!
how dangerously close to
- oh well

niedziela, 17 października 2010

Let me entertain you

ohmigod ohmigod I'm really gonna DO IT!

And feel my body pulsing with the newness of it all. Unexpectedness as well.

In a way I hadn't done THIS since I've been fourteen. There were shows, cabarets even. There was singing, dancing, directing. But.

This is the first time since, when I'm the director, the singer, the show. I'm everything. I'm waiting for the earthquake that seems sure to follow. I'm quaking, for now.

Since I've come here, there were parties, there was dancing, sweet grind of eyes on me. There it was, the sweet thrill of it, me only slightly abashed, more gleeful. All, I begin to realize, in preparation for this: the ultimate challenge. My experimenting stage. A stage to experiment on.

The ultimate beginning. This is big, I feel it. Jittery down to my bones.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are tonight's entertainment....!

poniedziałek, 11 października 2010

system error

[I'm here] Still [, through] deleting [I'm here]. Still editing the hell out of words not quite my own. Still trying to own up to myself.

Still trying to negotiate several different personalities within - find them their own langugages, ways of expression. Still looking for [naivete deleted]. Still self-censoring in a way that seems ingrained too deeply. A fine line between quality/damage control and plain old choking on other's expectations.

Still fighting my way against things, because fighting seems to be the only way to get me to actually care. Negative motivation is still motivation. Negative stimulation is still stimulation. You fight, you get tired, exhaustion creeping - you want some more?

[Hell yeah.]

wtorek, 28 września 2010

idiom: to go out on a limb

So say I'd tell him. So what?

What is he supposed to do? say? Maybe: "Thank you for sharing your dated emotional response towards myself"? Or: "Now our past misunderstandings become clear! I often wondered why you reacted this way when we drank wine in September five years ago". Or how about: "Are you crazy? I don't care!".

Therapy culture rotted out my brain, apparently.

Maybe I should tell him. Or him. Them. There's two of them. Guys I treated badly because I didn't know 1) what was it all about 2) how to deal. Remnants of my late adolescence. Late as in belated, late as in dead. Over with. Never to come back. Everyone has moved on, why can't I? Maybe I don't want to. It's easier to think that never, never, nothing can happen. Adolescence may be dead, but I'm far from declaring myself "fully grown" or even "mature". Both of those sound like adjectives about plants, anyway.

Better late than...?

How about you shut the fuck up and get on with it?

poniedziałek, 27 września 2010


I can't help it. I'm feeling underqualified.

It's stupid, but as stated - can't help it. What if you call yourself something and someone comes along and calls it in question? I used to call myself a rhymemaker, just to escape the label of poet - stifling maybe, but coveted, undeserved. Unjust. When I published online, other poets gave me the what-for, that's for sure.

So, to be anything, you need everyone's seal of approval or at the very least - a certificate. So what can I do, who am I allowed to - be? After finishing my Master's degree I shall be allowed to write. In Polish. As in being a writer. Of course my degree will be more in culture studies than anything else, as long as we're splitting hairs.

I actually thought about being a philosopher, but it's hard too, what with my desire to 'do things right' in the eyes of the world. I don't have a Master's in philosophy. But maybe the words will give me an out? A writer writes. A philosopher - wisdom-loving one. To paraphrase, a philosopher loves thinking.

Do I love thinking? It's more of a love-hate relationship... thing. Not just sex either, although there is chemistry. And friction. And tension... . Actually it's more of a threesome, me with thinking and acting. For the time being, acting seems to be surprisingly - passive, contrary to popular assumptions and nomen omen. Thruth be told, sometimes thinking and acting play bondage games, leaving me to fend for myself - when there's no action and thoughts lead nowhere.

There's a lot of thinking going on. I think about being this and that, like this and like that. Then I write it down sometimes, like now - although now it's too late, it all sounded a whole lot better inside my head. Thinking insinuates itself between me and anything else, its movement sinful, a thin film, a surprisingly final barrier.

niedziela, 12 września 2010

once upon a time, a boy met a Rita and wanted to show off his moves....

I hate it. I absolutely hate it when a guy decides to Make A Move.

I can feel it, the wheels turning in his head. It was nice, the conversation we had flowing back and forth; I felt comfortable, exuberant in my affection for the world. And then he goes (warning bells ringing in my head) - from a casual sip of carefully held liquid courage, to a casual shift into my personal space in that crowded room. Oh, the very casualness of The Move, rehearsed on countless editions of American Pie! I have no words, I only have casualties, namely the comfortable mood. Because as soon as he does his thing - a man on a mission of claiming territory - I just freeze. However nice or cheerful I've been - all forgotten. Cheerful? like hell! as soon as it freezes over!

I'm getting better in this game. I can still picture myself on that windowsill, still smiling, only a slight lean [away] of my figure and one tense hand [too close] betraying my unease. Keeping the pose uses too much of the resources, so I can't really talk, but maybe I could find someone on the other side me? anyone? help!

The thing with The Move is, that when he does that 'casual-pretend' farce, he's not acknowledging it, so I feel I can't either. Also, I have to be NICE! [cursing the foundations of girlhood]. So I can't reject him openly without making myself and possibly him look really stupid. Consequently, I'm supposed to sit still while I'm being invaded. The options: either he feels rejected by non-reaction (the most subtle and least effective rejection possible), which makes me feel kind of guilty, or he still feels he's got a chance [a snowball's chance in hell!] and hangs around.

What's sad about it is that I truly liked him, thought him nice and kind of handsome until he started doing this. It's like a switch - he stops talking, starts scheming and I immediately feel like just a body to get closer to, probable possession, territory - any-thing but the human being he spoke to a minute before. Also, it's kind of a stupid situation for both of us. If he looked me in the eye, he'd know that it's no way Jose - also, if I wanted to, I could make my own overture, after all. But he chose not to look, not to know, not to ask my participation. And I chose to run. Cowardly of both of us.

I've been in that place - I still visit it from time to time - so I know that shy feeling, walking around someone impressive, hanging around enough to border on stalking. But there are differences. First of all, these situations are usually results of a brooding, melancholic mood - I'm usually shy during the 'depressed' part of my bipolar routine. But when the person does not look comfortable - or indeed, look at me at all - I just slink away to lick my wounds in peace or try to concetrate or myself. Secondly, I am, by nature, a direct person. If pressed, even in 'shy' mode, I would have answered to a direct query (i.e."Why do you hang around so much? - Well, your looks and sparkling personality pretty much guarantee my presence". I found it's best to confuse people with the truth. It can be kind of original). Thirdly, although presence of someone I like usually puts me on edge (unless I'm just so comfortable... but that's for another time :), what I want most is contact. It may be awkward (hey, it's me, so...), but I need the energy of it, some sort of connection, confirming it's about me, and not about that warm body nearby, with a small print of: nice tits!

In conclusion, I need to assert myself in space, and stop paying attention to people, who take a friendly "Hey! What's your name?" as: "You should start touching me, as of: immediately". It kind of makes me feel better to have the pattern of my (and his) behaviour figured out; overanalysing it might be, but as long as it helps, fuck the over- part of anything. I just wonder: are people afraid of contact (and, lest you think me judgemental, with a few stipulations I include myself in that happy group) more afraid of others, or of themselves?

wtorek, 7 września 2010

I take the time to be
amazed, I ask to be
I wade my way throughout a maze,
I made my way through fire.
I bid the truth farewell - do tell
wherever it may roam
through kitsch poetry, weakling's words
I paint the lights of home.

poniedziałek, 23 sierpnia 2010

So THANK GOD I don't drink at parties, as a rule with few exceptions.

I liked him, I liked him so much. He was so CUTE I kept melting! And I should start recognizing it as my gaydar activating..... I just love the gays, what can I say...

I don't know anymore, if I wanted his attention or him, specifically. I'm betting attention, because I really want attention anyway, and lots of it, only I don't want it. Because I don't know what to do with it, when I get it. [it. a weak euphemism, if it's even one]

Just a brief interlude, trying to convince myself, that in a room full of professional dancers, I wasn't bloody fucking obvious to everyone present.

Hopefully, not everyone paid enough attention to figure that one out. Maybe I imagined the pitying looks.

[yeah, right.] [I'm a fag hag. can I get a t-shirt?]

Kill me now?

sobota, 31 lipca 2010

that brain of mine that nevereally
slows down
that brain of mine that neva really
slows down

the minefield of my thoughts hows whats
the minefield of my thoughts
don't mention whys like white on rice
steam engine, battery gone straight to buttery
mushy disaster, such a pain of a / in the

środa, 28 lipca 2010

drained, steadily draining. raining outside. raining outside. raining outside.

drained, steadily draining. raining outside. raining outside. braining outside

brainwashed by water trickling out of my ears

I'm gonna cut them off with shears.

sheer measure of pleasure absent from life

edge of a knife

ready to brain

brainlessly mingling with
lip-tingling would be
wordlikely letters

wtorek, 20 lipca 2010

less erotic and more grotesque, this, always doing the wrong thing (or feeling or...)

tiring out, mistakes and caring way too much.

don't I have a life? you tell me.

or better, don't. I guess I need to figure it out.

(does it show I'm crap at accepting help at times? especially when I feel guilty [oooooh-guilty! sing it with me!])

[damn, this blog is private as privates. As private as privacy can go and still be private within words. and not a tabloid. so. getting back to literature soon, I assure you, reader - it's probably not funny, when you don't know the characters involved.....]

czwartek, 15 lipca 2010

He was there. My bestest friend ever.

Smooching. Smoothed over with touch and laughter. Safe, safely embraced. Him - always there, always responsive, never taking too much. All playful and calm.

He was there. My bestest friend ever. Wonderfully - not enough.

wtorek, 13 lipca 2010

finally (aren't we all) morphing
into oblivion? finally
(aren't we all) ready to
reevaluation is the
word sponsored for right
here-now, (aren't we all) ready to
return to politeness of strangers, to
reunite with indifference?

(aren't we all) ready to forget? but
all the same, I will remember the
achiness of (lack of) touch, only highlighted
by the strangeness, rareness, being only
made by not being. (aren't we all) possibly
forgetting something?

2. strange tune, the one we're dancing to.
strange melody, and voice.
the leading strings of quartet which
appoints the movements of the joints.
strange tune, the one we're dancing to.
not likely to avoid
the void, one left by skipping by
the world torn into cleft.

3. can you be a melody? can I be a voice?
I'd love to sing, the lingo - new,
and fresh - all juice and novel
experiences, phrases newly formed and yet
at the same time -
understandable, unexpendable, impossible to forge -
let's dream the dream, even if
the taste of you on my tongue
only in words, it seems, can be
something else than
hopelessly cliche

or maybe it's the words
who trick me, trip me, fool me yet

środa, 7 lipca 2010

we're both restless. Can't give
each other any shelter.
We're both tired. Can't give each
other energy or calm.
or maybe we can. the restless feel
of hands held forcibly still.
the impossibly wonderful zing of
accidental touches.
hopelessly impossible to give
things to one another.
but I still want to. can't give it
up. can't give you up.
touch me, I'm sick. only ill for
you. for not-wanting you.

wtorek, 22 czerwca 2010

lost in translation

what about wanting to want? just to prove your own normalcy? what about need to prove it?

what about sitting, all cooped inside, and waiting for motivation to strike? what about missing non-existent touch? what about this quiet craziness, lurking?

what about out of body experiences like reading and living through the pages? all very useful, but what about coming down from that high? what about writing and notwriting? what about re-creating yourself through the touch of keypads?

what about me?

niedziela, 13 czerwca 2010

krzyk zamknięty w gardle, bo

tłok i tłum i szok i szum i nieraz stała na jednej nodze w tramwaju, a jednak to pierwszy raz, gdy palce odnajdują krocze. Palce przynależą do twarzy starannie odwróconej, skroni przyprószonych siwizną. Milcząc, podnosi siatkę z zakupami, chroniąc miękki brzuch. Truskawki krwawią w objęciach papierowej torby, coraz mocniej poddane naciskowi.

scream strangled inside her throat, 'cause

crowd and crush and loud and rush and she has, several times, stood on one leg inside a tram, but it's still a first time occurence, fingers travelling to crotch. Fingers belong to a face firmly turned away, temples peppered with grey. Silent, she pulls up a grocery bag, protecting the soft underbelly. Strawberries bleed within the paper bag, the pressure harder still.

środa, 9 czerwca 2010

Chciałam dziś wziąć, tak po prostu, twoją dłoń, i poprowadzić ją po wewnętrznej skórze mego łokcia - sam szept dotyku, dwa milimetry przestrzeni między. Samo ciepło uniosłoby mi włosy na przedramieniu. Ciepło i pytanie w twoich oczach; prowadzę cię, powoli i słodko, aż bierzesz mnie za rękę i zamykam oczy.

I wanted to take your hand today, just like that, and trail it over the skin inside my elbow - a bare whisper of a touch, half inch space in between. Warmth alone would have raised hairs on my forearm. Warmth and your eyes, questioning; I lead you, slowly, sweetly, 'til you take my hand and I close my eyes.

niedziela, 23 maja 2010

letters 2

we've always had this 'two lost souls' feeling to us. our fishbowls connected periodically and it was there, in a look, a gaze, a long, calculating stare. `we knew each other in just that way - cold comfort of "I'm lost, too", a hand stroking an arm in the middle of Pink Floyd-flavoured darkness.

We've used each other in just that way, and didn't realize that until later - when we couldn't look each other in the eyes.

Now it's a long climb back, which neither of us has strength for. We're both tired, or maybe we both like showing tired faces to one another. There are other people, less worn out by mutual abuse, damage done by distraction and unconscious actions. There are other people, trying to connect. And we periodically meet and look each other in the glass, and regret.

Why do i feel like something of mine is left with you? something little, inconsequential maybe, but - vital, something I can't be parted from, and even if I could - even consider it - you keep showing back, like a stray cat, to be fed, petted and let go. And I let go, when I don't - want to. And I don't know what to do with you; if you come back, if you don't.

Stray kindness doesn't do it for me anymore. What would do? no idea. Don't want to leave all this to you, but

I feel helpless, like action is beyond me, arms cut off, eyes blinking slowly, waiting for your move.

we've always had this old, lost feeling. what if it's not there, anymore? what do we want instead?

sobota, 22 maja 2010

listy 1

Jak i za co na ciebie nakrzyczeć? Chcę krzyczeć, krzyczeć na ciebie, krzyczeć w noc, zakrzyczeć się, wykrzyczeć. Nie wiem, co robić. Czasem chcę pożreć cie żywcem, ale nie mogę nawet pocałować. Zawieszam się, jakbyś był jedyna godna oglądu istota w czasoprzestrzeni, ale boje się spojrzeć ci w oczy. Moje uczucia są stosem ścian, blokad, sztab, hamulców hamujących inne hamulce; cokolwiek jest pod tym, jest wielkie nieogarnione i przerażające. Czy to ma się przekładać na wspólne śniadania? na jakieś współbycie? boje się siebie, kiedy jestem z tobą; nie znam siebie wtedy. Usta zastygają w bolesnym grymasie głupiego uśmiechu. Nie wiem, co z sobą zrobić.
Nie wiem, co zrobić z tobą.

środa, 19 maja 2010

Uwielbiam, jak na mnie tak patrzysz. Pożerasz wzrokiem jak szczególnie apetyczne ciastko z kremem. Ciastko za szybką. Nie zapominajmy o szybce! Szybka jest kluczowa! Gdyby nie szybka, nie pragnąłbyś mnie nawet w połowie tak mocno.

Nie możesz mnie dotknąć. Wiem o tym, i cieszę się twoim spojrzeniem - dotykiem zapośredniczonym - bez konsekwencji. Nie mam pojęcia, czy pragniesz mojego ciała, czy energii, która ze mnie emanuje, gdy rozkoszuję się twoim pragnieniem, wygrzewam w jego cieple.

Perpetuum mobile. W ciągłym ruchu. Mechanizm zwrotny, energia krąży, krąży, krąży. Nutka sadyzmu, gdy patrzę na twoje pragnienie. Przyjemność władzy, jaką odczuwam, wiedząc, że nie możesz go spełnić. Też nie mogę cię dotknąć, ale nie o to chodzi. Ważne, że cię czuję i w i e m.

"To fascynująca zabawa, miły"... .

I adore it, you watching me like that. Like you're starving, and I'm an especially appetizing cream-filled cake behind a glass. Can't forget the glass! The glass is the key, here! But for it, you wouldn't have wanted me half as much.

You cannot touch me. I know it and enjoy your gaze, without consequences. I have no idea if you want me for my body, or for the energy I radiate while luxuriating in your want, its warmth.

Perpetuum mobile. Perpetually moving. A feedback mechanism, energy flowing to and fro, to and fro, to and fro. A hint of sadism, watching your hunger. A pleasure of power I feel, knowing you cannot sate it. I can't touch you either, but nevermind. What matters is that I can feel you and k n o w.

"How fascinating a game it is, dear"... .

poniedziałek, 17 maja 2010

He was dumb. d-u-m-b. Stupid. Unintelligent.

His ignorance truly knew no bounds. But as he talked, she found it less and less repugnant. She let the comforting cliches wash all over her mind; all will be alrights and doesn't matters. Somehow, his stupidity stopped being a fault - rather, in her eyes, transgressing to innocence, simple and refreshing. Somehow, she forgot to be annoyed, focusing on a contact with another human being. Somehow, she stopped counting his blunders and unawarenesses. None of that mattered, for the moment/anymore.

He was there for her.

Był tępy. Tę-py. Durny. Nieinteligentny.

Jego ignorancja autentycznie nie znała granic. Ale gdy mówił, powoli przestawało ją to odrzucać. Pozwoliła, by omyły ją pocieszające banały; skąpała umysł we wszystkich "będzie dobrze" i "nie przejmuj się". W jakiś sposób ta głupota przestała być wadą - w jej oczach przemieniła się ona w niewinność, prostą i odświeżającą. Jakoś zapomniała się złościć, skupiona na kontakcie z drugim człowiekiem. Jakoś przestała liczyć jego wpadki i nieświadomostki. To wcale/w tej chwili nie miało znaczenia.

Był przy niej, wspierał.

czwartek, 6 maja 2010

pragnienie pisania, pisanie pragnienia. już któryś raz te słowa dwa owijają się wokół siebie w przestrzeni mojej głowy.

writing desire, desire to write. time and again those two words embrace each other in the space of my head.

channeling desire through writing. you need no psychology degree to see how it works. my body, full of words, made of words, body of text. my leg called a leg, my shoulder shaped against the letters. my thoughts, my words, my skin, impossible to touch. you can't touch words; all I ever touch is an unknown I'm afraid of.

przeżywać pragnienie pisaniem. nie trzeba skończyć psychologii, żeby widzieć, jak to działa. moje ciało pełne słów, zbudowane ze słów, ciało-tekst. noga zwana nogą, ramię kształtowane zarysem liter. moje myśli, słowa, skóra - niedotykalne. nie można dotknąć słów; dotykam tylko nieznania w sobie, nieznania, które mnie przeraża.

cisze są błogosławieństwem i przekleństwem. łatwiej ignorować ciało, które nie mówi. ale milczenie budzi we mnie lęk - ciało milczące, nieruchome, tkwiące za ścianą ciszy.

the silences are mixed blessings. silent body is easier to ignore. but the silence makes me afraid - my body not-speaking, unmoving, trapped behind the wall of quiet.

quietly crazy. crazily quiet. through silence lies madness, madness threatens to engulf me every time I fail to scream. quiet madness or mad screech of untouchable, unreasonable, unknown? alone?

ciche szaleństwo. szaleńcza cisza. szaleję przez ciszę, szaleństwo grozi mi, chce mnie ogarnąć za każdym razem, gdy nie krzyczę. ciche szaleństwo czy szaleńczy wrzask niedotykalnego, nierozsądnego, nieogarnionego? samotnego?

czego chce moje ciało? nie pytaj, jeśli nie chcesz znać odpowiedzi, mówię sobie. i nie pytam.

what does my body want? don't ask, if you're not prepared to know the answer, I tell myself. and I don't ask.

wtorek, 4 maja 2010

Words, words. It started with words, or maybe it's always been about them.

I don't do obvious, not where I can be seen or discovered by harsh breathing from the screen. Words are private; but for my face showing my thoughts, no-one would ever know. Words, cloaked in another, less obvious language; words, painting a picture.

From receiving to giving - I'm loving you with words. Touching you. Thinking you up. Realizing you, with the sharp point of tongue.

And there is silence. Space in between letters and licks. People don't always get it - that words don't exclude silence, don't have to.

Words, silence, curling slowly, smoke-like, around your body.

And it might not be just about words, anymore.

Słowa, słowa. Zaczęło się od słów, a może zawsze o nie chodziło.

Nie lubię być oczywista, nie chcę być dostrzeżona, zdradzona przez przyśpieszony oddech z ekranu. Słowa są prywatne; gdyby nie były mi wypisane na twarzy, nikt by się nigdy nie domyślał. Słowa, odziane w inny, mniej oczywisty język; słowa malujące obraz.

Od brania do dawania - wykochuję cię słowem. Dotykam cię. Zmyślam. Zdaję sobie z ciebie sprawę, ostrym końcem języka.

Jest też cisza. Przestrzeń między literami i dotykiem języka. Ludzie nie zawsze rozumieją - słowa nie wykluczają ciszy, nie muszą jej wykluczać.

Słowa, cisza, owijają się, wolno jak dym, wokół twojego ciała.

I może nie chodzi już tylko o słowa.

niedziela, 25 kwietnia 2010

dysfunctional drabble || drobiazg lekko patologiczny

This is new. The tight-happy feel, your stomach uneasy and fluttering all at once.

Or maybe not new at all. But always, always surprising.

It's his voice that does you in. I can see it - your eyes close helplessly, slitted in an unguarded moment of pleasure. Than, two seconds after, they snap open. And you glare at the world at large, at him, for making you do this, at yourself for losing control. For liking it.

And at me. For noticing.

Really, you'd be better of without the anger. It's not like your guard's slipped all that much. It's not like he doesn't let you control things - your independence always preserved, his body stretched languidly for your pleasure. He's only getting some of his own back, you know that. And you enjoy it, even if you can't let yourself admit it.

Now I made you even more angry, and conflicted. You're starting to boil over, me on the side, watching dispassionately as you struggle, struggle... and then he's here again, and the narrowed eyes slip shut again, trusting before you approve. He broke down the defences, and it's good for you.

It makes you wanna hit him. There he goes, not only laying you bare in private, but, excruciatingly, in public, for all the world to see. And it's so easy for him, too. No struggle, no nothing. The only thing stopping you is that he'd let you do the same, no hesitation. Bare his throat, his soft underbelly, animal trust and human understanding all rolled in one. That's why you only poke him in the arm, none-too-gently, and roll your eyes, while your cheeks are - slowly but surely - flushing.

You enjoy the push-pull, the fight, because at the end of the day, he'll be here to wrestle playfully and smile, his very existence reassuring in a way you can't not trust. You only worry if you're that good for him, too. He thinks you are.

Yes, he is. Good for you, that is. Then again, what do I know.

I'm just one of the many voices in your head.

Coś nowego. To uczucie, szczęśliwe i zaciskające brzuch drżenie, wszystko naraz.

Może jednak nie nowe. Ale ciągle, niezmiennie zaskakujące.

To jego głos cię rozbija. Widzę to - zamykasz bezradnie oczy, zmrużone w bezbronnej przyjemności. Parę sekund później otwierają się raptownie, i patrzysz spode łba - wściekła na świat, na niego, bo ci to robi, na siebie za stratę kontroli.

Jesteś wściekła, bo ci się podobało.

Naprawdę, mogłabyś darować sobie tę złość. Przecież nie byłaś tak strasznie bezbronna. Przecież zwykle godzi się na twoją potrzebę kontroli - nie zagraża twojej niezależności, rozciąga się leniwie na łóżku dla twojej przyjemności. To tylko niegroźny rewanż, wiesz o tym. I kręci cię to, choć nie przyznajesz się nawet sama przed sobą.

Przeze mnie jesteś jeszcze bardziej rozzłoszczona, rozdarta między przyjemnością a powinnością, tak jak ją widzisz. Gotujesz się ze złości, a ja stoję sobie z boku i patrzę, jak walczysz, walczysz sama ze sobą. I nagle on znów tu jest, zwężone gniewem oczy znów się zamykają, ufne, zanim świadomie się zgodzisz. Przełamał twoje bariery, i dobrze ci to robi.

Chcesz go uderzyć. Nie tylko obnaża cię prywatnie, ale i - co nieznośne - publicznie, na oczach świata. W dodatku tak łatwo mu to przychodzi. Bez walki, bez niczego. Powstrzymuje cię prosty fakt, że bez wahania pozwoliłby ci zrobić to samo. Obnażyłby gardło, wystawił na ciosy miękki brzuch - zwierzęce zaufanie i ludzkie zrozumienie w jednym. Dlatego tylko go szturchasz, nie za lekko, i przewracasz oczami, rumieniąc się powoli.

Akcja reakcja, cios za cios - podoba ci się walka, ale tylko dlatego, że gdy skończy się dzień, on wciąż tu będzie - żeby kłócić się i bić żartobliwie, jego istnienie uspokajające, budzące zaufanie, niemożliwe do poddania w wątpliwość. Martwisz się tylko, czy ty też jesteś dla niego dobra. On tak sądzi.

On też jest. Dobry dla ciebie, znaczy. Ale w sumie, co ja tam wiem.

Jestem przecież tylko jednym z wielu głosów w twojej głowie.

czwartek, 22 kwietnia 2010

fragment rozmowy || snippet of a conversation

- A mógłbyś założyć koszulę?
- Nie nago? - cień ulgi.
- Powiedzmy, że to fetysz. Nie musi być całkiem zapięta.
T-shirt ląduje na krześle. Koszula szepce. Spojrzenie.

- Jak mam to zrobić?
- Jak zwykle.
- Zwykle jestem sam.

- Podniecało cię to, kiedy cię poprosiłam?
- Tak.
- A teraz?
- Nie wiem.

- Mogę do ciebie mówić? Nie będę cię dotykać.
- Już mnie dotykasz. Patrzysz.
- ...
- Możesz.

- Zwykle zamykam oczy.
- Nie musisz na mnie patrzeć. Usiądę za tobą.

Ciało coraz większe, niewygodne, napięte. Jakby guziki miały trzasnąć, jakby miała pęknąć skóra.

- Could you wear a shirt?
- Not undressed? - a shadow of relief.
- Let's say it's a kink. Doesn't have to be buttoned all the way up.
T-shirt falls onto a chair. The whisper of a shirt. A gaze.

- How am I supposed to do that?
- Like you usually do.
- I'm usually alone.

- Did it turn you on when I asked you?
- Yes.
- And now?
- I don't know.

- Can I talk to you? I won't touch you.
- You're already touching me. You're looking.
- ... .
- Yeah, you can talk.

- I usually close my eyes.
- You don't have to look at me. I'll sit behind you.

Body getting larger, uncomfortable, tense. It's like the buttons are ready to let loose, any minute now, the skin is going to break.

środa, 21 kwietnia 2010

Ma delikatne nadgarstki. Nosi bransoletki. Bransolety. Właściwie jedną, na prawej ręce. Chcę. Chcę rozmazać atrament pod spodem, zapisać skórę jak białą kartę. Chcę ugryźć, zostawić ślad, tam, gdzie dostrzegą go tylko wtajemniczone oczy, gdzie dotknie tylko uprzywilejowana dłoń. Choćby istniał dotyk setek par oczu, milionów palców, chcę mieć ten nadgarstek jak białą plamę na mapie. Niech nawet słońce nie ma dostępu.

Chcę zlizywać tę biel i czuć, cały czas czuć na sobie jego wzrok.

His wrist are thin. Delicate. He wears bracelets. One bracelet, on the right wrist. I want. I want to crawl underneath it, with my ink, my tongue writing on that white skin. Wanna bite down, mark that part of him, breakable and lovely. Leave a trace where only in-the-know can see, where only a privileged hand can touch. Let there be hundreds pairs of hungry eyes, thousands of fingers, this one wrist is mine, my prize, my blank sheet of paper. White stain on his sun kissed body. Even the sun will be denied entry.

I wanna lick the white skin, and feel, all the time, feel his eyes on me.