Deception Story

Friends describe my DISPOSITION

as stoic. Like a dead fish, an ex said. DISTANCE

is a funny drug and used to make me a DISTRESSED PERSON, one who cried in bedrooms and airports. Once I bawled so hard at the border, even the man with the stamps and holster said Don’t cry. You’ll be home soon. My DISTRIBUTION

over the globe debated and set to quota. A nation can only handle so many of me. DITCHING

class, I break into my friend’s dad’s mansion and swim in the Beverly Hills pool in a borrowed T-shirt. A brief DIVERSION.

My body breaking the chlorinated surface makes it, momentarily, my house, my DIVISION

of driveaway gate and alarm codes, my dress-rehearsed DOCTRINE

of pool boys and ping-pong and water delivered on the backs of sequined Sparkletts trucks. Over here, DOLLY, an agent will call out, then pat the hair at your hot black DOME.

After explaining what she will touch, backs of the hands at the breasts and buttocks, the hand goes inside my waistband and my heart goes DORMANT.

A dead fish. The last female assist I decided to hit on. My life in the American Dream is a DOWNGRADE, a mere DRAFT

of home. Correction: it satisfies as DRAG.

It is, snarling, what I carve of it alone.

Solmaz Sharif, LOOK, 2016.

Lake Michigan Merges Into The Bay Of Valparaiso, Chile

the reasons for which our blood is drawn in the prison camps of Lake Michigan are not communicated to us

the reasons for which we are imprisoned are also not communicated to us

it is often said on the shores of Lake Michigan, which is the Bay of Valparaiso, that we will die for reasons we do not understand

we do not understand why we do not understand why we will die

we do not understand why we do not understand why we are imprisoned

we do not understand why we do not understand why we are paid or beaten or loved

we do not understand why last night the authoritative bodies loaded up four ships worth of prisoners and why those boats are half a mile away from the beach, booming dance music, baking in the summer sun

we do not understand why the authoritative bodies don’t sweep the carcasses of the dead pets and washed up animals off the beaches on which we walk and sleep

we do not understand our relationship one body to another

at times the authoritative bodies tell us to touch each other

at times they tell us to feed each other

at times they tell us to beat each other

at times they tell us to pay each other

at times they tell us to protect each other

at times they tell us to kiss each other

at times they tell us to probe each other with forceps, needles, and wooden skewers

at times they force us to force each other to drink dirty purple milk and to eat rotten bread and vegetables

at times they tell us to stick juicy oranges into each other’s mouths

at times they tell us to kick each other and call each other offensive names

at times they tell us to chew and swallow everything

at times they tell us to curse and laugh and hiss

at times they say: pretend you are an immigrant and hiss for us

at times they say: pretend you are not an immigrant and speak as if you are not a communist

or they say: your faces are organs of emotional communication: smile or frown or cry

or they say: pretend you are a machine and that you do not have a soul

or they say: you are nothing more than a piece of data to be aggregated, to be disaggregated, to be sliced and diced into the most minute units so that we can understand how the body and the city and the nation whir and wallow and tick

or they say: you are a human machine and you must explode

there is good money, they say, in emotional responsiveness

and at times they pay us when we laugh or snarl or cry

or they say: there is nothing to be gained from emotional responsiveness

so they beat us when we laugh or snarl or cry

and they say: you have shame in your eyeballs, you have love in our eyeballs, you have pain in your dimples, you have guilt in your mouth, abjection in your lips, joy in your nostrils, anger in your cheekbones, love in the bags under your eyes, passion in your eyebrows, fear in your chin, disgust in your forehead, disaster and promise and despair in the furrows of your face and in the murmuring economies on your rotten carcass tongue

Daniel Borzutzky, The Performance of Becoming Human, 2016.

You were a new world. My new world.

So there in Number Eighteen Rugby Street’s
Victorian torpor and squalor I waited for you.
I think of that house as a stage-set –
Four floors exposed to the auditoriums.
On all four floors, in, out, the love-struggle
In all its acts and scenes, a snakes and ladders
Of intertangling and of disentangling
Limbs and loves and lives. Nobody was old.
An unmysterious laboratory of amours.
Perpetual performance – names of the actors altered.
But never the parts. They told me: ‘You
Should write a book about this house. It’s possessed!
Whoever comes into it never gets properly out!
Whoever enters it enters a labyrinth –
A Knossos of coincidence. And now you’re in it.’
The legends were amazing. I listened, amazed.

I lived there alone. Sat alone
At the hacked, archaic, joiner’s bench
That did for desk and table,
And waited for you and Lucas.
Whatever I was thinking I was not thinking
Of that Belgian girl in the ground-floor flat,
Plump as a mushroom, hair black as boot polish:
The caged bird and extra-marital cuddle
Of the second-hand-car dealer who kept
The catacomb basement heaped with exhaust mufflers,
Assorted jagged shafts of cars, shin-rippers
On the way to the unlit and unlovely
Lavatory beneath the street’s pavement.
That girl had nothing to do with the rest of the house
But play her part in the drama. Her house-jailor
Who kept her in solitary was a demon
High-explosive, black, insane Alsatian
That challenged through the chained crack of the door
Every entrance and exit. He guarded her,
For the car dealer, from all, too well finally.
Not, seven years in the future, from her gas-oven.
She was nothing to do with me. Nor was Susan
Who still had to be caught in the labyrinth,
And who would meet the Minotaur there,
And would be holding me from my telephone
Those nights you would most need me. On this evening
Nothing could make me think I would ever be needed
By anybody. Ten years had to darken,
Three of them in your grave, before Susan
Could pace that floor above night after night
(Where you and I, the new rings on our fingers,
Had warmed our wedding night in the single bed)
Crying alone and dying of leukaemia.

Lucas was bringing you. You were pausing
A night in London on your escape to Paris.
April 13th, your father’s birthday. A Friday.
I guessed you were off to whirl through some euphoric
American Europe. Years after your death
I learned through desperation of that search
Through those following days, scattering your tears
Around the cobbles of Paris. I deferred for a night
Your panics, your fevers, your worst fear –
The toad-stone in the head of your desolation.
The dream you hunted for, the life you begged
To be given again, you would never recover, ever.
Your journal told me the story of your torture.
I guess how you visited each of your sacred shrines
In raging faith you’d catch him there, somehow,
By clairvoyance, by coincidence –
Normally child’s play to a serious passion.
This was not the last time it would fail you.
Meanwhile there was me, for a few hours –
A few pence on the fare, for insurance.
Happy to be martyred for folly
I invoked you, bribing Fate to produce you.
Were you conjuring me? I had no idea
How I was becoming necessary.
Or what emergency Fate would make
Of my casual self-service. I can hear you
Climbing the bare stairs, alive and close,
Babbling to be overheard, breathless.
That was your artillery, to confuse me:
Before coming over the top in your panoply
You wanted me to hear you panting. Then –
Blank. How did you enter? What came next?
How did Lucas delete himself, for instance?
Did we even sit? A great bird, you
Surged in the plumage of your excitement,
Raving exhilaration. A blueish voltage –
Fluorescent cobalt, a flare of aura
That I later learned was yours uniquely.
And your eyes’ peculiar brightness, their oddness,
Two little brown people, hooded, Prussian,
But elvish, and girlish, and sparkling
With the pressure of your effervescence.
Were they family heirlooms, as in your son?
For me yours were the novel originals.
And now at last I got a good look at you.
Your roundy face, that your friends, being objective,
Called 'rubbery’ and you, crueller, 'boneless’:
A device for elastic extremes,
A spirit mask transfigured every moment
It its own séance, its own ether.
And I became aware of the mystery
Of your lips, like nothing before in my life,
Their aboriginal thickness. And of your nose,
Broad and Apache, nearly a boxer’s nose,
Scorpio’s obverse to the Semitic eagle
That made every camera your enemy,
The jailor of your vanity, the traitor
In your Sexual Dreams Incorporated,
Nose from Attila’s horde: a prototype face
That could have looked up at me through the smoke
Of a Navajo campfire. And your small temples
Into which your hair-roots crowded, upstaged
By that glamorous, fashionable bang.
And your little chin, your Pisces chin.
It was never a face in itself. Never the same.
It was like the sea’s face – a stage
For weathers and currents, the sun’s play and the moon’s.
Never a face until that final morning
When it became the face of a child – its scar
Like a maker’s flaw. But now you declaimed
A long poem about a black panther
While I held you and kissed you and tried to keep you
From flying me about the room. For all that,
You would not stay.

We walked south across London to Fetter Lane
And your hotel. Opposite the entrance
On a bombsite becoming a building site
We clutched each other giddily
For safety and went in a barrel together
Over some Niagara. Falling
In the roar of your soul your scar told me –
Like its secret name or its password –
How you had tried to kill yourself. And I heard
Without ceasing for a moment to kiss you
As if a sober star had whispered it
Above the revolving, rumbling city: stay clear.

A poltroon of a star. I cannot remember
How I smuggled myself, wrapped in you,
Into the hotel. There we were.
You were slim and lithe and smooth as a fish.
You were a new world. My new world.
So this is America, I marvelled.
Beautiful, beautiful America!

Ted Hughes, 18 Rugby Street [In:] Birthday Letters


Noc drży za oknem, chce przebić moje serce

i wzywać imion, które zbeszcześciłem.

O, te imiona, wyryte na każdym krzyżu i kalające mą codzienną pracę.

Wiem, że wstanę i zniszczę moje łoże,

a razem z łożem marzenia, które wrosły w moje włosy na siedemdziesiąt lat.

Wstanę i powiem swój wiersz

dla żebraków, którzy żyją opuszczeniem,

na ulicach handlowych. Na ulicach,

gdzie w dzień jarmarku kobiety oszukują swoje ciała.

Te ulice stworzone z pszenicy mojego ojca

i z nędzy mojej matki,

która kosą przecięła sobie rękę i wyglądała przy tym

jak samo słońce. –

O, nocy, która przebijasz moje serce

wraz ze wszystkimi, których zbeszcześciłem…

Thomas Bernhard, Noc, [W:] Idem, Śmierć i tymianek, przeł. Sława Lisiecka, Zdzisław Jaskuła, Ryszard Wojnakowski, Wrocław 2015, s. 41.


Znam dno, mówi, dotykam go swym wielkim korzeniem:
Tego się właśnie boisz.
Ja się nie boję; ja tam byłam.

Czy słyszysz we mnie morze,
Jego skargę?
Czy też głos nicości, będącej twym opętaniem?

Miłość to cień.
Leżysz i płaczesz po niej –
Posłuchaj stuku jej kopyt, ona odbiegła jak rumak.

Całą noc będę tak dziko galopować,
Aż twa głowa stanie się kamieniem, a poduszka trawą,
Budząc echa, echa.

Czy mam przynieść ci rytm zatruty?
Ten wielki spokój to deszcz.
Jego owoc: cynowobiały jak arszenik.

Wycierpiałam okrucieństwo zachodów słońca.
Wypaliłam się do korzenia.
Moje czerwone włókna płoną jak druciana ręka.

Rozpadam się na kawałki wirujące jak maczugi.
Tak gwałtowny wicher
Nie zniesie obojętności: muszę krzyczeć.

Księżyc jest tez okrutny; przyciąga mnie
Bezlitośnie, gdyż jest bezpłodny.
Jego blask rani mnie. Być może go schwytałam.

Puszczam go wolno, puszczam wolno.
Okrojonego jak po ciężkiej operacji.
Jak twoje złe sny opętały mnie i wzbogaciły.

Zamieszkuje mnie krzyk,
Nocą wzlatuje,
By wczepić swe haczyki w obiekt miłości.

Przeraża mnie ta ciemna istota
Uśpiona we mnie:
Cały dzień czuję jej delikatne obroty i złośliwość.

Chmury przepływają i nikną.
Czy to twarze miłości blade, bezpowrotnie stracone?
Czy to dla nich niepokój targa mym sercem?

Nie pojmuję nic więcej.
Co to za twarz,
Tak śmiercionośna w gąszczu gałęzi? –

Wsącza swój jad żmii.
Poraża wolę. To poszczególne grzechy,
Co niosą śmierć, śmierć, śmierć.

Tłum. Teresa Truszkowska

Sylvia Plath, Wiersze wybrane, tłum. Teresa Truszkowska i Jan Rostworowski, wybór i posłowie Teresa Truszkowska, Kraków 1975, s. 41-43.

Nocne tańce

Uśmiech padł na trawę.

A w czym zagubią się twoje
Nocne tańce? W matematyce?

Tak idealne pętle i spirale –
Z pewnością

Wędrują po świecie, nie będę żyć
Wyzuta z piękna, z daru

Twego oddechu, woni wilgotnej
Trawy twych snów, lilie, lilie.

Ich ciała są obce.
Chłodne zwoje jaźni, kalie,

Tygrysie lilie strojne –
Cętki na rozpostartych płatkach.

Muszą przebyć taką przestrzeń,

Taki chłód i niepamięć.
Twoje gesty spadają jak łuski –

Ciepłe i ludzkie, ich różane światło
Krwawi i odpada

W czarnej amnezji nieba.
Czemuż mi dano

Te światła, te planety
Spadające jak łaska, jak płatki

Białe, sześcioramienne
Na me oczy, usta i włosy

I nagle topniejące.

Sylvia Plath, Nocne tańce, tłum. Teresa Truszkowska, [W:] Sylvia Plath, Wiersze wybrane, tłum. Teresa Truszkowska i Jan Rostworowski, wybór i posłowie Teresa Truszkowska, Kraków 1975, s. 45-46.

Kochanka Norwida


moja matka (zamknięta
w Żurawicy, Węgorzewie,
Jarosławiu) zawsze
musiała do kogoś należeć

kogo sobie zmyśliła wyobraziła
lub kto został jej przedstawiony
we śnie (na podobieństwo
Norwida) ale z kim wadziła się

moja matka i w jakim
języku przywitał ją ojciec
niegodziwiec który nigdy
wcześniej nie słyszał o Norwidzie

(27 V 2007)

Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki, Kochanka Norwida, Wrocław 2014.

Najlepszy poeta nigdy nie wygrywa. Historia slamu w Polsce 2003-2012

Najlepszy poeta nigdy nie wygrywa. Historia slamu w Polsce 2003-2012, red. Agata Kołodziej, 2013

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dzisiaj jestem niebieski możesz mnie kojarzyć

z morzem niebem lub wodą zadzwonić na suki

i zgłosić wątpliwości tak długo się staramy

coś o sobie powiedzieć – tu pomysł się kończy

a zaczyna poezja proszę o wers ciszy

dziękuję dzisiaj jestem niebieski jak toto?

sen jest spędzony z powiek łasi się do lustra

kiedy tępą żyletką zdrapuję ten kolor

z niebyłego obiektu – coś jakby boisko

oczywiście do polo a może do diabła?

tutaj pomysł się kończy sen zmienił się w lipiec

więc rodzę się na nowo stoję pod prysznicem

woda spłukuje resztki – murawę i konie

całą trybunę vipów podobnych do diabła?

chciałbyś odpalić auto a kluczyk jest z lodu

woda niebo i morze w drobnym kruchym soplu

kilkadziesiąt sposobów powiedzenia – jestem



brzydka jak noc więc lumbago przezwana ciemno

pod swoją osłoną z ogrodu kradnie róże

boimy się jej twardych nierównych paznokci

boimy się że z tego wyrośnie i róże

które zniosła zgasną a kto zastąpi chłopców

jeśli nie skręt palców którym rozpala róże

i ciepłe jeszcze dostarcza przez prześwit w oku

nasza seryjna lumbago nasz kamień z serca


prawda (nawet prozaiczna) o której Poe

mierząc w słup telegraficzny pogubił oczy

prawda (nawet prozaiczna) o której Poe

mierząc w słup telegraficzny nie mógł zaświadczyć

mówią że przed świtem operował dwururką

bo tam usiadło odlecieć nie chciało mówią

że ciary mu wyskoczyły przez to i zniknął

niestety zbyt wiele mówią o czymś te oczy

Kamil Brewiński, Clubbing, 2013

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