They say you have to find
your inner child.
Well, mine is called Lupilu—
suitable for sensitive skin,
flushable,
fragrance-free—
kids’ moist toilet tissues,
a bag of which sits on top
of my toilet’s tank.
After all, I’ve always been
a sensitive man.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Mr Honk never understood
the look of bewilderment on people’s faces
when he whistled Christmas carols
in July, as if he were singing commercials
at a funeral. And it wasn’t that he was trying
to convey some profound message—
he simply enjoyed the cheerful tune,
as only an infidel could.
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The thunderstorm season, with its usual titillations
and occasional remarks on lost virginity, had begun
with a rumbling on the windowsill and a heavenly groan
that woke him in the morning to a fundamental question:
Can one read the Great Romantics in sweatpants
or the Modernists in a tailcoat? Apparently,
even atheists like Mr Honk have their grave Sunday
dilemmas.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
What does it mean to have a sense of humour
in a world where even the freckled can’t tell jokes
about freckles? Like a conjurer’s missing hat,
internalising ‘the great stone face’ in recall
might just be the silent answer,
even if apocryphal.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There is nothing like father-son bonding
over car washing on Saturday afternoon—
even if rendered futile by the torrential rain—
on the long list of childhood gaieties we’ll try
to forget for the rest of our lives.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.
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Of all the creatures big and small, there are two that I actually quite like—magpies and slipper animalcules. The former for the good neighbourly relations we have, the latter because of a poem—but I suspect you may not know Andrzej Bursa—that once gave me the unique opportunity to say ‘motherfucker’ out loud in class without any undesirable consequences. The thrills of youth—where have you gone?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)
I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My late Sunday breakfast-turned-lunch
consisted of a piece of flatbread with peanut butter
and that overlong commercial for a jeweller from Fifth Avenue
showing what happens when you get your cat wet.
The only thing missing was a coupe of milk
and my decorator.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 