I guess I’m no longer looking for anything—
anything in particular, at least
(subject to the occasional surprise).
Perhaps that’s why I have settled on films
with Miss Kendrick—somewhere along the way,
I left behind a pile of first-edition hardbacks,
and my collection of Ikea nutcrackers fell victim
to the financial proceedings—the final stage
of love.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My name is Peeping Tom—
caught in the little drama
of that insular open-air museum
unwilling to admit it punches above its weight,
I can’t imagine calling myself anything else
after a few weeks of reading The Letters
of Lytton Strachey—and yet even a subaltern
yearns to be fond of something
beyond the mathematics of conduct,
where to simply live would be nothing
but stating the obvious (we try to warm ourselves
by the soul’s residual heat, only such a fireplace is no more—
we once replaced it with a radiator).
But if life has no inherent meaning,
it’s up to me to invent one for myself—
a cup of chilled hemlockshake should suffice.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
When destiny is the most you can bear,
personal extinction is not a threat;
it’s an escape route from the horror of choice,
yet just saying that makes it sound trivial,
like a barking dog’s obligations: a scheduled comfort
or love amongst the travellers.
But you don’t have to be upset to be kind,
even if nature does make fun of us
and it feels ridiculous to be hunted
by literary characters we killed—
as if we didn’t care, except we do—
instead of letting them run their course.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
To walk about naked
after fifty years of tête-à-tête
with a pillow
felt like effete complacency
that went beyond certain obligations,
yet Mr Honk perceived it as no more
than monotonous staccato
measured by an hourglass
rather than a metronome,
suspecting that life’s last curiosity
might actually turn out to be an endnote
page that contains nothing
but a bunch of ibids from an unknown source,
a mild inconvenience,
one could say,
after doing one’s utmost
and still failing to figure out the function
one was supposed to perform.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
With every line a liability—
and Ea von Allesch out of reach—
I can’t leave my expectations
at the mercy of the em dash.
And while I can always hang a thousand words
celebrating the forlornly sought-after mortality
of Death itself
on the wall,
there’s no need to be overly dramatic—
everyone deserves a postmortem, after all,
even the slightly hysterical.
Isn’t that what a pied-à-terre is for?
Perhaps.
Unless you make it your living
room.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Faith is a perishable good with a somewhat intimidating scent
of respectability, a late symbol of our exalted humilitude—
as if café au lait wasn’t enough—and it makes me think
of the last day of the Inquisition and of clerks burning old paperwork
and auctioning off no longer needed instruments of torture
to be repurposed as it fits.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
It is such a decent vice to have,
or at least an interesting one,
like a minor stroke or veisalgia,
and once you’ve got over it,
you don’t even need a physician
or a chemist—just a solicitor
and perhaps a poet.
As insatiable as it is accidental,
who’d have thought life would be anything
but a mere inconvenience?
After all, when it comes to life, all we have to do
is sustain it until we produce offspring,
and then we are free
to perish.
Life is a curse—a sentient one all the more so—yet we cling tenaciously
to this self-perpetuating whim of fate, failing to see that we are nothing
but victims of Stockholm syndrome in a vicious circle of reproduction,
with the upshot of comatose reason as a fig leaf for weaponised intimacy;
nothing that an episode of hentai and a box of tissues wouldn’t have solved.
If only I had known this all those years ago, or better yet, if I had never
been born to have to learn it.
hidden pilcrow 