A dumbbell in my ribcage, like a dead weight
on a chopping board, pulverised—
a change of air might do it good—
and yet still carrying on
with its tedious staccato,
as if nothing ever happened.
Would it shock the ladies?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I’m trying to recall when
a caress turned into a doss—
a simple muscle memory feat—
only to dissipate like an ache
after double paracetamol
and the cold shoulder.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I would love
to write love poems
again.
There’s just no point in trying
when in the bittersweet
it’s only me
and aspartame.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I can’t stand waffling on
and have always appreciated the brevity of style,
but even for me a simple ‘I love you’ won’t cut it anymore—
I’ve learnt my lesson.
Perhaps next time just say
nothing,
whoever you are.
Wrapped in a blanket,
I pass the morning (it’s noon already?!)
with GLS’s letters and a piece of flatbread
with peanut butter and dried apricots
since peeping at long bygone lives
and inventing odd dishes is the most I can do
while I wait for the final act of misfortune
I brought upon myself when, in a hormonal haze,
I followed tradition and a state-sanctioned
cursed primal urge.
If I fled to Norway with my bubble-wrapped dispositions and unbearable cravings,
would that be proof that I had finally shed the provincial attitude I was born with
or that I was a habitual procrastinator, constantly pushing aside the urgent need
to solve the mundane complexities of my pre-divorce life and start breathing again?
Perhaps I would have met a local songstress there, singing about listening to the ocean
and climbing her way in a tree—not that she would ever so much as glance at a bloke
almost twice her age—and felt my heart skip a beat once more. But that’s impossible,
because first I would have to shower, change, and hit the streets of Granite City, leaving
my granite tomb that I sometimes humbly call home.
I don’t do Christmas gifts—or Christmas itself, for that matter—but if I did,
an Etta James record and a box of soft tissues would be plenty, I guess,
so I’m not a high-maintenance man, yet neither a good girl nor a bad one
writes my name on the tag attached to the wrapper with the Santa motif,
and not even because my solitary life has grown on me after a few years,
or my last date thought I’m a bore and didn’t hesitate to say it to my face,
but because it’s easier to cry to ‘At Last’ than muster up trust once again.
It starts with skipping the shower on the odd occasion.
After a while, showering every other day becomes a habit.
Then you realise that washing the whole body once a week
was actually good enough for your forefathers, but since you
are not religious, you end up settling for doing it fortnightly.
You even come up with quite an elaborate explanation
—something about environmental awareness and the like.
But, I guess, personal hygiene is not the worst casualty
of the lockdown-induced remote work, online shopping,
and heartbreak.
Sometimes I wonder. If it had been a little less improvised,
with a slightly more suitable soundtrack, would it have gone better?
Our last day, I mean, or maybe the first—I’m not so sure anymore.
I guess it all came down to the fact that, somewhere between
a jar of grated horseradish and a jar of honey, we forgot
that turning on the turntable makes absolutely no sense
if we never place a record on the platter.
hidden pilcrow 