Scriblings

I'm still internetically (just checked it and it's an actual word, yikes) here. Recent times brought back my teenage poetic mug back from the past, for better or worse I don't quite know yet, but as Kurt Vonnegut (not so famously) said: 

“A writer is very fortunate in that he can cure himself every day, if he is able to write every day, he has done himself some sort of great psychological favor”

So here it goes, two scriblings one in english and one in polish, feel free to over analyze if you happen to stumble upon them.


Oh Hi Darkness (16.12.2021)


Hey darkness

Why serious so?

Why so serious black.

And cinematically inept.


Hey darkness

You make me questionable

And dreadfully ambiguous

When I take holiday snaps

With you.


Hey darkness

I misplaced my keys

Could you help me find them?

Never mind.


Hey darkness

You ever thought that

Your duel with matches is not fair?

Even the sun won't stand a chance.

Perhaps you should start picking on equal opponents, 

Like time.


Fkcjd ffjdkdkm 

Dkskck fkdkdjjjjj vgbcvnynnkvkgkf. 

Jcj

Vvb

(Hey Darkness I used you to write this verse).


Hey darkness

If a tree falls in the forest.

But no one's there.

Can you still hear the sound of it falling?


Hey darkness.

I've stopped worrying about you coming.

I know you are here already.

Always has been.


I've thrown the matches into the river.

The sun won't even reflect off its surface.

But how wonderfully.

It flows.



Fli ze śmi (30.12.2021)


Umówiłem się ze śmiercią

Na kawę.


Przyszła

Ale nie w czas

Do innego miasta

Ale pod właściwy adres


Czekałem długo

Stęskniony trochę

Bałem się o nią

Może zabłądziła?


Albo spotkała się

Z kimś innym

Zdrajczyni, myślałem.


Zrozumiałem wtedy 

Dlaczego tak wielu

Nie chce jej znać,

Bo samolubna,

wiecznie zabiegana

Wpada przelotem

I tylko na chwile

Kawy nawet nie dopije.


Więc szukałem jej,

Obdzwoniłem nieznajomych

Zamieściłem fałszywe nekrologi

W gazetach których

Nikt nie czytał

Wypytywałem tych starych

Którzy wierzą

Że znają ją na wylot.

Wiersze pisałem.


I nic.


Z tego całego szukania

Znalazłem boga 

W pudełku od zapałek

Pustym i prostokątnym.


Prostym i niewyszukanym.


Potem zadzwonił Cleese.

(ten od Monty Pythona)

I mówi, że on to już wszystko rozkminił.

Śmierci nie ma i żebym już jej nie szukał.

A najlepiej to chodźmy się gdzieś razem najebać.

I odłożył słuchawkę.


Cleese jeżeli to czytasz

To zadzwoń i powiedz chociaż

Gdzie się chcesz spotkać

Ty chuju.

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