The tourist

I’m not a very interesting specimen,
a hostage to awkward silence
and unforeseen circumstances,
but we don’t invent autobiographies
to live up to them—
this is what guestbooks are for—
and I like the idea of ‘or something’,
and that the most intimate personal detail to reveal
is the taste of blood after biting my tongue.
Also, for someone who doesn’t drink,
I devote a lot of attention to potations
served as a triune chorus of gratitude,
which sounds rather appalling, yet it’s still better
than some unfortunate magnanimity of intention—
the mother of all exhaustion in both,
regardless of whether I prefer to be situated
in Beatrice’s basement or Virgil’s attic.


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A white elephant

How selfish one must be—
how inconsiderate—
to impose one’s primal urge
on the next to come
under the pretext of not being able
to ask for consent,
as if our Eden were anything
but an elephant pavilion.


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Artin

It appeared suddenly
from behind the smoky horizon,
a non-dimensional apparition
I like to call an artin,
with all its pretended musings
and occasional hallucinations—
not quite Hal or Skynet,
but who cares about the old bogeys
when one day you might find yourself
in Josef K.’s shoes?


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The trespasser

I never expected ‘interesting’
to be such an offensive word,
like the unavoidable scent of semen
one calls freedom, though nothing as carnal
as patting the bed while dressed as a brigand
with a flask of brandy and a handkerchief,
uncomfortable yet of modest needs, certainly deliberate—
a kindred spirit trespassing the orchard east of Eden,
asking if there was anything special about the twenties
other than becoming a quinquagenarian in the midst of them,
which at the time seemed such a conundrum
but eventually drowned in birds’ chirping
at the first sign of a full-house solitude,
raising cauliflowers to the rank of orchids
(something to repay for one’s ignorance),
playing violin in the afternoon with the passion
of sock garters mingling in the lingerie chest
(I don’t think we ought to withstand the weight of the harp—
it seems like too hasty a decision, doesn’t it?),
to finally leave an inheritance in the form of a pair of wellies
and a map of Cornwall, and perhaps an ossuary
to keep amongst photos and sighs
on the sideboard.


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Waiting for M

Never sure he needed a prompter
or a ponce, Mr Honk was desperate
to play the farewells and greetings
as if they were merely exercises
in elocution or, at most, ill-equipped,
restless harbingers of piles—
just another great Scottish tragedy
of arse.


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Teleological congress

There are no apple trees in paradise,
only tomato vines with stakes and trellises
for reclusive eccentrics’ convenience,
and how very British—counting days
or lamp posts with the awareness
that our greatest invention might be
the flushing water closet.


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Britishness under the AI microscope

‘How very British to count days or lamp posts’ might seem like such an innocent statement that no one would suspect it to be a practical joke—yet that is exactly what it was, and it was played on none other than Google’s AI. No wonder it fell for it and produced some rather bizarre cultural insights:

The idea of counting days or lamp posts, while not exclusively British, can be seen as a quirky, slightly obsessive, and perhaps endearing trait associated with British culture. This can be linked to a love of routine, attention to detail, and a certain dry humor.

Here’s why this might be considered “very British”:

Emphasis on Routine and Order:
A structured approach to life, including counting things, can be seen as a way to impose order and predictability in a potentially chaotic world.

Love of Detail:
British culture often appreciates the subtle nuances and details of everyday life, and counting things like lamp posts could be a way of engaging with these details.

Dry Humor:
A self-deprecating and understated sense of humor is also a British trait. Counting lamp posts could be seen as a form of dry, slightly absurd humor, where the activity itself is the joke.

Regional Differences:
Some areas of the UK might have more of a tradition of counting lamp posts than others, possibly influenced by local infrastructure or community practices.

Historical Context:
Historically, lamp posts were essential for navigation and safety in towns and cities, and counting them might have had a practical purpose in the past.

In essence, while not a universally accepted British custom, the idea of counting lamp posts can be seen as a humorous and slightly quirky expression of a few common British traits.


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Epiphany

Have you ever been let down
by a typewriter,
with its slugs tap-dancing
on a torn-out flyleaf,
or a fountain pen
preoccupied with the antepenult
in dissyllables?
And yet, you might still prefer that
to chalking doors.


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The tangential

Caught in ungraceful ageing,
like the past imperfect
clinging to a collection of grainy photographs,
Mr Honk felt tangential
every time he was greeted by a neighbour
with the unfamiliar ‘Ay ay, fit like?’
or ‘Foos yer doos?’,
unable to muster the expected
‘Nae bad, chavin’ awa’ in response,
not because of the vernacular barrier
but for the simple fact that he’d answer the hum
of a foghorn or oystercatcher’s cry
rather than admitting that he longed for a touch
of unadulterated soma.


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com