all the trinkets of the day
I have seen Adam and Eve in a book
depository—he was a keeper; she, a dust jacket
fitter, who once learnt
at a lovers’ lane that, whether it’s fellatio
or a blowjob, it is supposed to be time well spent,
until they give you the look and then you know—
after all those years you are merely acquainted—
you and that shadow of yours.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A good life is very much all about being specific;
everyone knows ambiguity leads to turpitude.
Perhaps we invented restaurants—
places where we participate in learning
to despise—because we couldn’t stand the silence
of the hearth.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As a man of dubious standing,
was the restless denizen of Tythinge
truly worthy of the close attention
of all the illustrious biographers,
simply because his name was John
le Fucker?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Fallen or otherwise, I don’t believe in angels
raised on tinned sardines in spicy tomato sauce,
which you served up like sturgeon—a sight
grotesquely incongruous with that poky flat
in a shabby neighbourhood—so that one day
I might remember it all began with a snooty
‘I won’t like you.’
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As I clean my greying beard
clippings out of the sink,
sometimes I imagine stepping onto a punt
to face the old chap Charon—but then what?
At least Greeks had the obolus;
what is my currency—
a donkey jacket and a pair of wellies
turned into a badge of honour?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I have a plan
with unlimited calls and texts
(which is the standard nowadays),
and yet, faced with a profusion of means,
everyone’s will seems to lag behind,
as the only call I answered
over the last few months was a reminder
about my dentist appointment.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I wept when reading Father Goriot
and The Idiot, but I was fifteen—
a fair excuse, I guess—
whereas now I simply try to believe
in my every word that I still remember,
as the days insist on living
without revealing which gullible soul is destined to pay
for accepting ‘visiting hours’—
or, as I call it, the life of a film-trailer connoisseur
who grasped a simple truth about colours:
they do not exist
(why wouldn’t I trust Keller and Lusseyran on the matter then?),
so I could spend my final day complaining
that, in recycling culture, even planting cabbages
has become yet another lifestyle hashtag
splashed on a t-shirt.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Have you ever noticed the subtle difference
between a chitchat and a small talk—indistinguishable
until you realise that late is too late
when she says, ‘I’m gonna get some sleep’—
while listening to Mercadante,
you were about to remark that there is no harm
in being curious as to what ‘Figlia,
ti scuoti’ means?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
With Heikousen as my recent earworm, I act
the world forgetting, by the world forgot—
evanescent murk of the sullied corse taking part
in the prearranged dread of toffee apples
on All Saints’ Eve at Tesco.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
