Words from Warsaw

Jazz me to the end of time,

Jazz me here till what you saw
Is no longer what you have seen,

Oh jazz me there till what you see
Is just no longer what you’ll be.

Jazz me to the end of time,
In the streets of Barcelona
And in the suburbs of Warsaw.

What with all the silly innuendoes, I certainly have the feeling that, in order to prevent the most popular websites from being so popular, writers like me who have embarked on a stern course, so far away indeed from the mere leisure of shaved pussies, hot blowjobs and whatnots of the same flour (as Spinoza has it), ought to keep away from those very same most popular websites.
But they don’t.

With the flu, there’s not a bird in sight.
Inenza is what I would rather call it.

This is where my story starts. I can’t abide by all these rules. I have lost so much time in the throngs of useless people. This is where my story starts.

Thelonious is no longer among the chased mongrels of decayed mankind. He is playing with the clouds as with piano cotton.

It’s been a long time since I last heard him in Warsaw (of all places).

The map of Warsaw that I have in my rucksack is exactly the same as the map of Woolongong that you have in your purse, except that it is in your purse.

Shylock has no rucksack, I am afraid.

Warsaw was raw, in the first place.

There is this odd idea, this misconception that Warsaw is a city, even though Warsaw is just one fine word in the title of the book that I am currently writing.

I swallow willows

I issue bellows,
A tissue in my
hand where I can weep.

This is surely no longer the case. What is no longer the case? A suit is no longer the case. Wearing a suit is no longer the case. Having a suitcase as your only piece of luggage is no longer the case.
Sleeping in a suite is nothing but a chase.
Sleeping in a suite is no longer the case.

Breuer and Freud had this hue that was central to their complexion and common to their research.
Nihil novi sub Wersuwia.

A Boy and a Bicycle, this outstanding short film by Ridley Scott, reminds me of Zoetemelk riding his bike through glades and dales.

I certainly need to start working on my pastiche of Stein’s A Novel of Thank You.
Thank you for reading me, though.

(Have you ever read a poem by Everette Maddox? (That’s name-dropping if there ever was.))

This weblog is entitled Words from Warsaw, not because I have ever been to Warsaw (I haven’t) or because I intend to teach you how to speak Polish (I can’t myself), but because it sounded nice and the English name of the capital known in France as Varsovie and as so many other things in so many other languages starts with a W and ends quite in the same way (or I am much mistaken).

This is not my only blog, as you’ll soon find out, but I do hope that you will all enjoy it.