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.

piątek, 23 grudnia 2011

i wonder at myself. after subconcious hints, thoughts and hope-against-hopes

i still have the capacity to be shell-shocked.

i have nothing profound to say.

oh wait, i do:

you think love is all you need.

but love is only all you want.

and it is not enough.

piątek, 16 grudnia 2011

So what, who, were we, are we to each other?

Doors open to other realms (but how long can you stay within open doors)? We felt each other right away, like animals smelling their own kind. But what of it? is it enough?

Old issues are just covers - both in musical and metaphorical sense. They're covers of old happenings which will or won't happen again, no one can tell; they cover up the fact that until we move on with our individual lives, we don't have much to say to each other. We each have a desperation, but those desperate needs don't quite match now. They may match later, when we work ourselves out.

It's time for me to pick myself up by the scruff of my neck. I will look. I will search. I will consider. I will find. I will find my way out, and I hope he will, too.

Something has broken, and I can't tell if it's for better or worse, an ending, a beginning, both. I am here, right here and now, and I need to live in it. Again, after September, comes the "shelving" time; after we're both done, we can, perhaps - reconverge...

I'm not saying it's easy on me. Not at all. But it's simple. No sacrifice, we had said, and early on, too. Not even subconscious version of sacrifice. Because if there was sacrifice, not only we wouldn't forgive each other: we wouldn't have forgiven ourselves.

poniedziałek, 28 listopada 2011

fast or slow?

Do we go fast or slow?

I still remember missing each other so badly for an evening or two - the impossible separation, the dragging of hours, the weary and excited wait for him to show up at my door.

I dislike remembering the desperation tinged efforts of my thesis-writing. That was a special time, during which missing each other was relegated to backburner, out of necessity. No that it was any less desperate.

Now we are just weary and desensitized. Nevertheless. It's like a steady drain on the system. And even if the excitement of seeing him will wear off with time, I'm very ready to just, be around each other. This is too impossible. Seems just impossible to take it.

And I prohibit wanting. It takes energy to want and not receive.

sobota, 3 września 2011

He always disconnected at the most inopportune time. Just enough to foster - something, and leave it. To fester.

He might be having dinner. Or working. Maybe he's on the phone. How about shopping? having a drink with friends? who knew.

She only knew she didn't know what he was thinking. And there was stuff for him to think about.

She only knew she did the best she knew.

And fuck the drama anyway :p

of time wasted

It's interesting. The more time I waste, the less time I waste.

Let me rephrase.

Once again - like a student, needing Remedial Rita lessons - I closed myself in my house to work. Instead, I found myself watching House M.D. rather a lot.

Today I went to the park and sunned myself on a bench. I've just finished breakfast (scrambled eggs, fresh basil, onions, cheese, buns) and have coffee waiting. And I find myself reflecting, that 'wasting time' in the park is muchly preferred to 'not wasting' it - or wasting away - inside.

Living without [fresh] air - apparently unacceptable.

piątek, 2 września 2011

You don't want to lose me, and I'm losing myself.

Don't know what to trust, what to do. You change every which way - I never know if what you're saying is true or 'you're fine' cause you wish to protect me from something. I resent needing protection - can't handle anything - can't tangle this out. The only thing I know clearly is needing a break to do the important stuff. Everything'll get easier after that.

I'm losing myself. Am I strong? addicted? wanting truth? demanding? being childish and immature? asking too much, asking too little? Don't know, and rather can't afford to care.

I'm busy.

środa, 31 sierpnia 2011

poetry recs

I'm reposting stuff to poetssociety on livejournal ( and there are two v. cool poems there. check these out, people!

[here endeth the metanote]

PS incredible, how many bad depressed poetry is out there. i can't read beyond spelling mistakes, and i'm reading anyway because i feel a bit guilty because I do what 90% of posters there - that is, pop in, post my stuff, and don't read anybody else's :P

poniedziałek, 29 sierpnia 2011


Awfully wishful, but then -- all the same
I shall find joy in opening of doors.
I cannot walk through all of them, of course --
don't know my choice yet, my path has no name.

But first, there are matters that come to a close
twighlit, long-shadowed, licked by touch of flame
with some head-shaking, critical acclaim
I shall of those things gracefully dispose.

Oh! she exclaimed, as dreamy as rose
in-between pages of long-loved book; stain
having kept fragrance, caressing the nose

She shall be happy with it, I suppose,
with rare-ocurring bouts of teary rain
-- worn metaphors -- comfort that she chose.

środa, 24 sierpnia 2011

tickly (tacky, wacky) thoughts

I like to rub my nipples.
(Warning: this won’t be deep)
I rub them when I just wake up, and when I fall asleep.
I rub them when I think, I rub them when I read -
(especially scientific stuff, it helps me focus just enough)
The only time I stop,
is always when I write
It takes two hands – ay, there’s the rub –
For this to work, I have to stop –
A different pleasure doesn’t rob
Me of fun when I’m done.

Just differently – it still tickles.

I started working (thesis - adorations :p )

I started working. Couldn't tell you why
just as I couldn't tell you why I wasn't.
I feel another shifting of the scales.
They're deep within me. Blotting out of fear
(what was I fearing?) balanced out by pleasure
mindless and soothing. So I ate some sweets,
watched House M.D., bought chocolate yoghurt
went to see friends. Here I am, at work,
striving near frantically, making up the stretch
of "wasted time". But the tipping point
was not, for which thanks, breaking point of me.

Who set up the scales?
Don't know this. But still
I am, will remain
yours and devoted, intrepid and bright,
("brilliant but lazy" - was the diagnosis
of unenlightened) academic rockstar.
Who - right about now - works with all her might.

I started working. And, well, who cares - why?
(I care - fortunately
My dance card is busy :)
We've finally had a storm today. It smelled of dust and car fumes, with a note of yesterday's mowed grass and a faint shadow of sweet fragrance, possibly from the flowers behind the fence of the security-guarded block of flats. I was walking in it when I went shopping: I don't own an umbrella, and I wouldn't have used one anyway. Each drop was like an individual shock to the core.

I made turkey in tomato sauce, with generous dose of garlic and some herbs. It smells divine, but the portion is way too large. I have trouble re-learning how to cook for one.

I bought chocolatey goodness - yoghurt. It's meant to soothe bad moods and maybe a bit, heal the longing. I miss Dutch cheese and shopping at Blaak. I miss having a bike.

I miss places and people. I miss going to swim in the lake. Finally a proper summer, and here I am, stuck with books. My mother kayaks all over the place. Good for her.

I think I should have explored southern Rotterdam a little more.

I will, now, refrigerate the leftover sauce. Eat some sweets. Brush my teeth. Trappings and wrappings of regular life.

I don't want this writing to end. I miss English. Just as I missed Polish.

Did I set myself up to be torn, forever? or, in some cases, for lengthy periods of time?

If I survive this, I will be so strong. Maybe I am already.

poniedziałek, 15 sierpnia 2011

I miss
the way my body is with your
body. Even though there's
not a lot I can do
in both situations (A being with, and B
being without) I still miss
tracing your thoughts by your eyes rather than your
voice on the grainy connection
of dearly paid mobiles --
pictures on skype, although nice, do
not give me your
eyelashes, or those eminently
bitable lines of your
jaws, your neck, your.
I miss curling into your collarbone
sliding my hands in places undiscovered by

naked eye, hugging the world
I can feel
within you.

poniedziałek, 25 lipca 2011

to the next level

I get so smart, when in the shower. It carries me through the day. Through thoughts, ideas, what have you. Through changes.

It will be time to change. No kidding. Yes, I'm scared. I cry, I talk, I hide.

But yes, it's time.

I'll do it. I always do. Not many other things certain, but this.

And the other certain thing I will leave with - yes, that. That, and hope.

Spoken cautiously, though often. Dearly, gently, held.

Next level. Wait for me, on the other side.

niedziela, 10 lipca 2011

na wieczne, nieskończone, silne postanowienie poprawy?

Mam drugą skórę.

Od dawna mam drugą skórę, tylko nie bardzo wiem. Co z nią, i jak ją, i. Wiem skąd. To wiem.

Jeśli jest druga, musi być pierwsza. A pierwsza skóra jest cienka. Cieńsza niż oddech motyla na letnim wietrze, cieńsza niż nitka bawełny, cieńsza niż szpilki ironii, które - w obliczu rozpoetyzowanych obrazeczków - cisną mi się na usta.

Cienka. Za cienka, by żyć.

Nagość, nie do ogarnięcia. Otwarcie, nie do przejścia. Pierwotne otwarcie, pierwsze, nieświadome, nieudane, nie - dane, otwarcie z urodzenia, bez świadomości, pragnień, celów. Otwarcie, cienkie jak papier, jak cień ostrza papieru, jak cięcie na skórze. Wielkie otwarcie. Keine grenzen, without borders, bez granic.

No aż się prosi, żeby przydeptać, i poskakać! :D

Pierwsze otwarcie. Wszystko wejdzie i wyjdzie. Nie do życia, nie do życia z kimś. Za głośno! za dużo! za mocno!

Pierwsza lekcja niesprawiedliwości, czyli przetrwania: nie można oddać tak mocno, jak się otrzymuje.

Pierwsze prawo obcości: nie czuję jak inni ludzie.

Pierwszy siniak: nie pamiętam. Chyba od początku byłam sina. Niebieska, żółta, zielonkawa, wszystko pomiędzy. Obita ruchem powietrza między drzewami, obita głosem i wzrokiem zewnętrza. Nie wolno mi było oddać, nie czuję jak inni ludzie, i oni nie muszą, wcale nie muszą czuć jak ja.

Tak powstała skóra druga.

Na początku zakładałam ją tylko czasem. Jak było ciężko.

Na początku była tarczą, półpancerzem, zatyczką do uszu.

Ale zaczęła przyrastać, i zaczął się problem. Bo druga skóra nie ma drzwi.

Najpierw wysechł mi głos. Potem przestrzeń między biodrami - nim zaczęta, skończona. Brzuch i kanaliki łzowe trzymały się dzielnie, wykonując pracę za wszystko, co zamknięte. Druga skóra nie miała drzwi.

Zacisnęła się wokół mnie ciaśniej niż kaftan bezpieczeństwa, dokładniej, bliżej. Została mną - doskonale funkcjonalny suplement. Druga skóra jest androidem, imitacją normalności. Umożliwiła przetrwanie. A drogie toto było, jak cholera! Wciąż płacę, jak kredyt wzięty na mieszkanie. I mieszkam w niej jak squatter. Silniejszy wstrząs może mnie wyrzucić, nie czuję się jak w domu.

Nie czuję się.

Nie czuję.

Imitacja doznań zmysłowych funkcjonuje bez zarzutu. Opowiesz mi dowcip, i będę się śmiać! Pobijesz mnie, będę płakać! Dotkniesz mnie, odwrócę się i spytam: co jest? No co?!

Gdy zdarzy się coś naprawdę silnego, wstrząs wyrzuca mnie ze skóry. To nie wolność. Natychmiast przyrasta z powrotem, jak bumerang, jak coś na gumce. Nie brak jej sprężystości. Pod drugą skórą, znieczulenie rozprzestrzenia się jak zastrzyk. Pod narkozą, obserwuję jak druga skóra naciąga się z powrotem, wygładza na mojej twarzy.

Druga skóra nie ma drzwi.

Nie chcę wychodzić ze skóry. Świat na zewnątrz jest silny, bez świadomości własnej siły. Wszystko uderza z coraz większą prędkością, mimowolnie, bez złych intencji. Nie chcę być kukłą do bicia, rzucaną przez kolejne uderzenia, z prawa na lewo. Nie chcę wchodzić na ring.

Skóra nie jest zła. Jest konieczna. Nie umiem poza nią żyć.

Ale wciąż walczę. Dzień w dzień, wycinam w niej otwór na usta. Oczy mam na wierzchu, zawsze, zawsze bezbronne. Przed intensywnością mojego wzroku nie musiałam chronić otoczenia. To tylko mój głos, który teraz gotuje się pod skórą, był przedmiotem lęku zewnętrza. Ten głos jest za potężny, żeby z nim żyć w skórze, zbyt mocny, by go tu zatrzymać.

Mam drugą skórę. Ona ma mnie. Otwieram sobie drzwi - czasem naturalnie, czasem aktem woli. Czasem drzwi kołyszą się, jakbym mrugała powieką. Czasem ktoś się dziwi, że tam jest coś pod spodem, czerwone.

Mam drugą skórę. Mam się bać?

poniedziałek, 30 maja 2011

these are the times

there are times of special
meaning. transformations that
take us not by surprise
but by the hair, dragging
pulling into the vortex
of feelings, whirlwind of
reluctant change. and the more things change
the more they stay changed? can't
find my way through old
names, feelings, proverbs, wisdom of
peoples, when however wordy
it is my life I am
attempting to live, create
and my life, contrary to this firmly embedded
assumption of mine, is more, is
way more than
words. and here I am, dosing myself with
plots, to keep from kicking and
screaming, slowing down the
necessary replication of cells
of thought. because when the solutions
finally emerge, they're simple, they're
thoughts that I've seen before, had before
only too quiet to get
through. And so, finally, I realize
this time, this body, this mind
and hope, again, that there's something left
of time, so that I
can do my best, before getting hit
by a falling
star of frustration

[like a brick from a window
on a spring morning
fated and random
depending on language
and spaces you leave
in between]

sobota, 30 kwietnia 2011

sometimes we kiss, and

Sometimes he
keeps his eyes open, when we kiss. I wonder why,
observing this from beneath
lowered lashes. Does he fear
missing a trick or being tricked by
some duplicity on my part? my concealed
boredom, or malice or maybe
indifference? or is it - perhaps - a hunger to
inhale it all? or does he seek
my awareness, connection I deny
shutting my eyes? I wonder at this.
I wonder if. I wonder now, of
course, cause when we kiss
the wonder of this (being this, having this)
just takes my breath away, and yes, his gaze
does it too. And while I love the heat
contained in it, I do like it best
when his eyes slide to a close - not quite willing
that loss of sight, but sighs make up for
a lot, and yes, yes, yes to those trembling lashes
- the gentlest caress.

poniedziałek, 11 kwietnia 2011

way to the heart - dialogue of special gender awareness

R: [eyes closed in bliss, savouring] There's some truth in that "way to the heart goes through stomach" proverb.
M: I think it was "way to man's heart" actually, dear.
R: [blinks] ...
R: Whatever. [digs back into her food]

niedziela, 3 kwietnia 2011

post-it note built on mis-take

please don't misuse
the miss-yous. They are what
is meant to be a beauty of the later, of
joys to come. 'longing is the virginity
of happiness'. please don't misuse
as musings of longing should be the
active, the pre-eve of wonder. please don't mis-,
understand that. please. I will erect
a sign for myself, a sign for others - all
because missing and misuse
should never, ever
be confused,
my love i miss you, but i won't
- to mess up, i refuse.

piątek, 1 kwietnia 2011

I send him out for sweet sweet wine and think of scare of falling
I send him out for dry wine, and I wait the sound of calling
me on my phone, I'm not alone, I'm getting used to skin to skin
to mouth to mouth moth to the flame then I'm remade, all in the name
of words translated, words that flow and change beside my pillow.

piątek, 25 marca 2011

I am an explorer -- now chilled to the bone
done nothing, yet feel like I've just run a marathone of
unending stairs. here we declare non-
declarational statuses of
bonuses. as fits the benefits, there are sours and sweets
and fits of freakouts, breakouts of
allergic shivers that to those in the
know spell no
like a language forgotten misbegotten mislaid
somewhere on the road I
try to relearn, reload, reclaim
the my-ness of it, the sweetness of mine, but
caffeinated exhaustion meets me with
cold fingers fisting into
stones of bones.
heaviness seeping through
nailing me down, down, down and then
I give up on myself for a little while
with a helpless smile, or that confused frown
paving the way there -- maybe, maybe
there's another day.

poniedziałek, 21 marca 2011

of shopping trips, or being tripped by shopping [intro to my life with M]

Instance one: he goes for black tea. He comes back with croissants and goat cheese. He forgets the tea.

Instance two was even better -

And then he comes back from an ordinary, run-of-the-mill morning [relatively speaking*] shopping trip for sausages and possibly croissants, brandishing:

Exhibit A: unknown object which, after investigation, turns out to be a pack of beans ["damn, I thought they were sweets!"]

Exhibit B: tooth-cringingly sweet chocolate pralines, which he insists on feeding me;

Exhibit C: oh wait, tooth-cringing title belongs to the baclava, feeding remains unchanged [sweets before breakfast! blasphemy!]

Exhibit D: an unknown fruit, which is possibly an avocado, because "it was just there". To my exasperated: "What am I supposed to do with it?" I heard:

- I don't know. Love it?

Well. Indeed.

*It was breakfast we were making. There were eggs and all. It was also 4:30. p. m.

sobota, 19 marca 2011


- D'you think there's a support group for stupidly smitten? Maybe we should sign up. :p

- Who cares?


wtorek, 8 marca 2011

freedom within possessive pronouns [?]. paradoxes for breakfast. sun, spring, smile, cliche, I don't care... :)

środa, 23 lutego 2011

would you please GET OUT OF MY HEAD?

comfortable much? at least stop STOMPING!!

no swimming, no forever. but there. last night, there were flowers. previous, I don't remember. but I wake up and wonder, wonder whether I wake up again and again with you underneath my eyelids.

Most vexing. Young man, this is quite unprecedented. Remove yourself, or I shall use force.

... I wish.


wtorek, 22 lutego 2011

I don't want to wait. Scared out of my mind though. [too private to verbalize? or too verbal to privatize?] Seems like yesterday when I wasn't ready. Am I now? No idea, but I do want it more. Don't want the regrets, the waiting, the lost chances. Won't forgive myself unless. So yeah.

Rose Bruford College of Theatre & Performance.

I am so freaking scared.

poniedziałek, 7 lutego 2011

dictionary meet & greet (words dictionary meat) -> start with becoming, cause you can't stop it

I will become. I am becoming. I have become. be+come - state and movement, stillness and space. travel without going outside your body.


I have been accusing myself of. I have been an. un. unbecoming, that was it. unbecoming of a young lady of my status. yes. my behaviour. it was unbecoming.

unbecoming, as in, did not look good on me. didn't make me more beautiful as a young lady should be. for this, I will not apologize. this, I will continue.

unbecoming, as in, did not feel good. did not further my travels. did not help me keep on becoming, restating, recreating. for this, I forgive myself. this, I want to erase, can't erase. this - unbecoming - I [want to] let go.

today I let myself immerse in people. awash with their smiles, words, telephone numbers, binarities, weirdolities, little strangenesses. minor oddities. treasures. tresses of individual hair-thin threads/little lives meeting mine, and I am so different in being met! [or am I?]

meet. meeting. people, expectations, boarders. meeting - introducting my head to the wall (meeting - beating) . not meeting. not meting out. measuring of distances.

on meeting I'm still thinking. becoming is. becoming keeps on becoming. meeting is more volitional. via volitional illusions, I keep on meeting. keeping on becoming can keep on becoming without any (cautious) conscious input. that's why it still is. if I could experimentally have stopped to restart, I probably would. damn my creative scientific soul. and, or, mind.

do you mind? I do. do you ever wish you didn't?

czwartek, 3 lutego 2011

I had words for you.

I had words for you - as opposed to having words with you - ... well, I suppose it doesn't matter.

You don't know me.

I struggled with that. Maybe because I wanted you to know me, so much. I wanted myself mirrored in you. I wanted to get to know some little things, only distinguishable from up close. I wanted. But that's done, almost done, almost over with. I try not to be pathethic - you're not the only one I ever think of - I try to be honest with myself, as well. It didn't matter what I wanted, in any case.

But this, this remained. You don't know me. You've never seen me in the dancing daze - only caricatures within parodies of music. You've never seen me forget myself. You've never heard me singing, in a single moment, when I'm suspended in the all-powerful.

You've never seen this, and yet I allowed you to judge me - as if those judgements were valid. Oh, they were - I would never deny you the right to a perspective. But I paid attention to them as well, because I wanted to matter so badly... and that, that was a mistake. It was so easy to take judgements as expectations. So effortless to me. Too easy.

The path of too easy is there. Too easy usually only makes it more difficult later.

For some reason, I take the too easy path all to often. And that part has nothing to do with you. It just is. But I had words for you, only you don't need them. They're about me, and for me, no one else. There is no one else.

środa, 26 stycznia 2011

there is, definitely, something unfair - in asking to be saved from myself.
if you try, I'll resent you -
I'd rather cry on my own -
until my mind will wake up, come to the rescue, but

until then
will make do
with the unsilenced yearnings of the body

wtorek, 25 stycznia 2011

play pretend

teach me to want you, so I can feel.
teach me to want you, so I can feel the
normality, probability, breakability of the real
honest-to-god skin, no ephemeral sin, but only
touchability of hurt gets through

so far. teach me to want you, so I can feel
safe in a normful of predictability, full of
myself escaping from the fear of confines
into their soft, soft embrace, in your arms.

teach me to want you. alternatives
are frightening; the motives, the reasons, the
lighting that never strikes - the long stretches
of time, when this not-wanting is quite enough, when

I learn to be wanted, that dubious enjoyment
of having breasts, of having thighs
but as adept at being desired
my wanting is wanting. neglected, as a
matter of acts never commited
or commited without the feel, the zeal, the
even lacklustre resemblance of
passion, I'm

playing at this, playing you, acting
my first, single, best performance, only
for whom, and for what - not questions unanswered
but questions unasked.

sobota, 22 stycznia 2011

photos I'd like to take [in progress]

It's just a snapshot, black and white, or maybe tasteful sepia. Just hands, tight in the short black hair. Just toes curled, knees bent - in pleasure, in submission, in wielding the power. Just words, whispered intimately, shiver-inducing and sharp, silver-tongued. Just that, covering that much - a fantasy, a cover that never happens.

poniedziałek, 17 stycznia 2011

having that touch - nothing like remembered or imagined. did I get this wrong? have it, can't enjoy it - it's in our hands, this, hands to hold and to push away, but pushing away hurts at least the pride, and is hard to do. Is it my wanting? Is it my empathy?

[ can't say it any better:

"9 Why were we crucified into sex?
10 Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves,
11 As we began,
12 As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?" ]

poniedziałek, 10 stycznia 2011

tesknic za dotykiem przypadkowym, pelnym radosci i zapamietania. rozpamietywac. rozbierac na czesci ostatnie. rozpraszac sie mysla, ze gdyby, ze moze, ze nawet -- i budzic sie, i jeszcze.

missing the touch, an accidental one, joyful and abandoned. remember. caress every part of the memory. distracting yourself with the thought that if, that maybe, that even -- and wake up, and again.

[and more]