all the trinkets of the day
Rice flour, potato starch, maize flour,
tapioca starch, gram flour, arrowroot powder,
calcium phosphates, sodium carbonates, xanthan gum,
ground black pepper, eggs, and water—
all that to make a piece of flatbread for my breakfast,
which is as revealing as Boîte ouverte
de Piero Manzoni.
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If I were born with a sixth sense—
not some paranormal hogwash,
but something like a magnetic sense
or the ability to perceive polarisation—
my world would likely be richer,
though the very thought of it makes me feel
like a physicist specialising in photology
yet not knowing what red is,
having been born blind.
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Would you rather be caught
with a copy of The Human Condition
in a Hollywood Wives dust jacket
or the other way around—
assuming it makes a difference at all,
since either way it proves you have met
a literacy attainment target?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Sometimes I question the old bloke in the mirror,
‘For how long do you plan to remain a mere victim
of adolescence?’ but he never responds,
so I’d like to ask my readers—all three of them,
but one is biased (myself), another stays silent
(an American poet with a good education),
and the last has been retrained into a daft office drone
(are the shareholders happy now, Mr Amodei?).
In the end, it all boils down to nothing much—
a sentiment, perhaps.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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
