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.

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.