The Factory

Placing our thoughts in order and putting them into practice is the hardest challenge of all.

Month: January, 2016

Poem 10

Illusions are ceremonious. Curators and consulates, free from cogs, turn more than two ways; spinning oceans, spiralling above sands. Morning’s nature breaks its wave over wistful political stance, cleansing red hands while drying pillowcases. Winter’s cough bore down, strangling lungs, before summer skies, prehistoric and unburdened, rewrote the score. These cravings are ambiguous. No home to miss, or classify you under pretences and picket fences. All possibilities of present time and place evaporate with the steam of a slow cooker left on high.


Reading Lost Meanings

When I was young I thought all books contained hidden meanings. That everything was coded and none of the words told held any truths. I could never decipher any of their meanings. The words were not unique. They were words. I was alone, over shadowed by those in-depth and lucrative morals. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I realized two things. Firstly, maybe, I was thinking about this too much, instead of enjoying the simplicity of the words I saw at first glance. Secondly, it is possible to loosen rocks of truths and deeper understandings from every media source – including newspapers. It is also possible that there are no lost meanings camouflaged amongst the lines of the page. Leaving generations of ill-advised youths, misled by teachers and their teachers before that. So, now, when I write my only hope is to achieve imagery and meanings that differ from one reader to the next, eliminating the need for explanation, as it is already there to be seen.

Paroxysmal Symptoms

While sending emails filled with proposals, a to-and-fro of cramping convulsions, the kind synonymous with epileptics who find themselves grouped together in classes. Their wilting shakes brought on by virginal brides, yet to be taken from the grasp of a mother’s shoulder. Within those emails of HTML, an uncertainty of financial gain, looming deadlines and a desperation to meet interest rates, all written under the distraction of evening rain and light pollution. A marriage of paroxysmal symptoms; short, frequent, a stereotype, their faces are a creation of common design features. Much like the time I came face-to-face with a large dog while walking down a dimly lit cycle path. It was early winter, but should have been autumn. As I closed in on the animal, expecting at anytime to greet the owner, I noticed it was not a dog, but a stag with stern antlers and smoke back-firing from his nostrils that stood in my way. I remained calm, until five others came running from the trees like a real life Jurassic Park.

Play Parks and Goal Posts

Life can be hard if you chase anomalies. Replace blood with grains of sand and salt from seas, bake yourself at 220 degrees between sheets of life and sleep. Children lose their sixth sense with every year that passes, until they become great cynics. I am losing all creative edge. So, I walk hill to valley, town to vale, between play parks and goal posts, racist graffiti laid over white paint; an unsavoury advert for a child’s eye.

Country Scene

A fear of uncertainty shadows unexplainable features. A mothman over cornfields, spied by a single eye via a cracked fence panel, still clinging to frozen soil, still daring, even after decades of abuse, tortured by the season’s wind that plights the last four months of every twelve. That sort of country scene. Every morning at 5am I stood and smoked, half wanting the impenetrable shell of my bed thirteen steps away. The other half dazed under the possibility of eighteen hours of elitist sunshine. Unsure whether to remain impressed by the fact that his life had been so skillfully carved from a single block of wood. Choosing to favour the idea of many blocks being thrown together in artistic chaos – an order dreamed up by Picasso. Like Picasso, I was just as pleased as I was disenchanted.

Cameras Stole this Habitat

Cameras stole this habitat of lilac crested mildew, forcing a fast walking pace over a slow run. A homecoming of banners at half-mast, a laundry of lights, wilting fireworks against pictures patched together in liquid sleep. Too cold for leaning, I huddled, knees breaching hail-scattered ground. Everyday, hills provide inclines damaging my resolve. Midmorning wheezing leaves me wondering thoughts of emancipation. Cotton separates dank plagues, interring their followers of little hope; far from sunlight and daisies. Pen held raised to your guitar. Bones kept under England’s soil with eyes stoking every blade left at the roadside. I wear memories of you like a suit of splintered glass. The acids collecting in my legs bare down on me like a knife struck across the heel.

Boxcars and Broomsticks

Where have all the boxcars and broomsticks gone? Laid to waste under cobbles and fish shop wrappers; smells lost to modern day health and safety etiquette. A fantasy utopia of romantic dreams and past occasions, now defunct beside fallen fences. I lie longing for a moment that I orchestrated, but I always find broken strings and out-of-tune sounds that cast me back under diminished sheets. A minor longing for major pain is cooking food with the oven switched off. Segments of eras separated by a single windowpane. Myself clogged, waiting without change for the next bus. This is no heavenly way to die. The rough canvass choking brought about by the longing of, once again, witnessing wooden boxcars and broomsticks chasing ageing cobbles.

City of Two Climates

Our city of two climates where beached debris congeals into garden walls. Wildlife thrown together with cuts of cloud broiled over raindrops. Our dreams aren’t as morbid as first suggested. The linguistics applied stippled the winter clouds, warming the atmosphere, but leaving morphemes suspended in a spiky haze. I avoid tornados by hiking between the narrows, fleeing behind walls, losing relevance, and my place between seasons. All the while you stand above vegetable patches on higher ground, lines of trees obscuring views. I retreat to edit words, like a relationship councillor unknotting events too minimal to include in draft form.

Expanding My Online Presence

I’m not social media’s biggest fan, but I have decided to branch out in an attempt to sell myself more. So, I have signed up to Twitter, username @D_Chrzanowski, and Tumblr, link below.



Mouth of darkness: a wedge driven between boy and man equates to the birth of l’enfant terrible. A mad virgin breaks from domestic farce and we behold a striking visionary begging for arrest, with eyes we know not to enter. But, like the retreating snow on the first day of spring, we melt and give ourselves to the Libertine; a desperate quest to hail Bohemia. I am not flexible. I am human with a temper offset by lack of status and routine.