Everyone is Pacific sometimes...

You must think that I'm beautiful
Atlantic, let's talk about the Atlantic
Our love is like the beach
We are weltering and weltering and weltering and weltering
When you're seagoing
I live my life as if I'm intertidal
Ooh - surroundings
Everyone is Pacific sometimes

Die Grüne Antarktis: Erster Ausschnitt (2022).

Die Sonne scheint und füllt den Himmel mit Conquistas Gold. Wir marschieren durch die rote Wüste. Im Grunde dort, wo sich Sand und Meer treffen. Da ist nichts zwischen ihnen, nur zwei Menschen, die schweigend gehen, mit einem Soundtrack von Dudelsäcken und Kirchenglocken. Er trägt ein weißes Gewand mit einer türkisfarbenen Schärpe, sie ist nackt, nur mit einer nicht näher bezeichneten tropischen Blume im Haar. Seine Glatze glänzt in der Sonne, ihr langes blondes Haar spiegelt sein Spiegelbild. Füße hinterlassen keine Spuren im Sand. Der Wind heult, aber der Sand liegt ruhig an seinem Platz, und das Haar der Frau bleibt unbewegt. "Dunkel ist der Garten", jammert ein Chor, der wie tibetische Ritualmusik klingt, "und wir müssen gehen." Der Schatten riesiger Flügel bedeckt für einen Moment die Wüste. Bald verklingt Musik, eine spezifische Klangkunst, entfernte Echos eines Gesprächs, ein Flüstern ist zu hören. Liebhaber. Fremde. Gesten. Dauern. Das hat ihr Wind zum Sand gesagt, das hat der Sand gehört, eingehüllt in den ewigen Abendmorgen, das tragen alle Liebenden, Fremden, Gesten und Dauern unter ihrem Schädel, wo sich die Milchstraße windet, und um sie herum das Ganze Universum der Schwingungen, die Melodie der Ewigkeit. Dunkel ist der Garten, und wir müssen gehen.

The sun is shining and filling the sky with Conquistador's gold. We march through the red desert. Basically where sand and sea meet. There's nothing between them, just two people walking in silence to a soundtrack of bagpipes and church bells. He wears a white robe with a turquoise sash, she is nude with only an unspecified tropical flower in her hair. His bald head glistens in the sun, her long blond hair reflects his reflection. Feet leave no footprints in the sand. The wind howls, but the sand lies still in its place and the woman's hair remains motionless. "The garden is dark," wails a chorus that sounds like Tibetan ritual music, "and we must go." The shadow of huge wings covers the desert for a moment. Music soon fades away, a specific sound art, distant echoes of a conversation, a whisper can be heard. Lovers. Strangers. Gestures. Durations. That's what their wind said to the sand, that's what the sand heard, wrapped in the eternal evening morning, that's what all lovers, strangers, gestures and durations carry under their skulls, where the Milky Way winds, and around them the whole universe of vibrations, the melody of eternity. The garden is dark and we must go.

Słońce lśni faszerując niebo złotem konkwisty. Maszerujemy przez czerwoną pustynię. W zasadzie tam, gdzie spotyka się piach i ocean. Pomiędzy nimi nie ma nic, tylko dwoje ludzi maszerujących w ciszy, z podłożoną ścieżką dźwiękową kobzy i kościelnych dzwonów. On ubrany jest w biały szlafrok przepasany turkusową szarfą, ona jest naga, jedynie we włosach ma niesprecyzowany tropikalny kwiat. Jego łysa głowa lśni w słońcu, jej długie blond włosy odbijają jego refleksy. Stopy nie zostawiają śladów w piasku. Wyje wiatr, ale piasek spokojnie leży na swoim miejscu, a włosy kobiety pozostają niewzruszone. „Mroczny jest ogród” zawodzi chór brzmiący niczym tybetańska muzyka rytualna „a my musimy iść”. Cień gigantycznych skrzydeł spowija na moment pustynię. Wkrótce dźwięk muzyki, specyficznego sound art, cichnie, słychać dalekie echa rozmowy, szeptu. Kochanków. Nieznajomych. Gestów. Trwań. Oto co powiedział ich wiatr piaskom, oto, co piaski usłyszały spowite wiecznym poranko-zmierzchem.Oto, co wszyscy kochankowie, nieznajomi, gesty i trwania noszą pod czaszkami, gdzie wije się Droga Mleczna, a wokół niej cały wszechświat drgań, melodia wieczności. Mroczny jest ogród, a my musimy iść.

PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC™

In December I have begun releasing a series of albums on the A.J. Kaufmann bandcamp under the common title "Pink Elephant Music". There are 2 volumes released as of today.

Here's Volume 1:


PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC is improvised music, psychedelic music, krautrock, and Polish punk - which blended together are exactly what they are - "pink elephant music". It is the music I feel in my soul, and want to share with you the feeling of creativity, joy, and fantasy. I always had it in me.

I was busy with PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC ever since I can remember, but the name was suggested to me in 2002 or 2003 by an older friend (don't remember his name), who listened to my tapes with Mateusz Nowicki and declined joining us telling me that "that's pink elephant music". He couldn't feel the vibe, and the vibe was really foreign then (and still is) to Poznań, Poland.

But, with the new album series I hope to make this sound more accessible to a wider variety of people, not only globally, but also locally. Maybe you'll dig the vibes and original ideas, which we had here in the Górczyn high rise since at least 2002, and I was already writing first songs in 1998. That's 25 years next year... I was 13 when I started writing songs, and I will be 38. Age is not even a number. My old friends no longer play Pink Elephant Music, but some people still do. In fact, we could form a nice band together were it not for fate which often messes with me and time. We always pass each other and say this and that, but when it comes to recording, I am most often left alone.



If you're curious, I guess the first outburst of this creative juice was listening to a Velvet Underground album at the age of 12, then Amon Duul II and Hawkwind age 15, and finally Manilla Ungol age 17. Also, Polish punk - especially Moskwa, Ewa Braun, Ścianka, Brygada Kryzys, Dezerter, Kabanos etc etc etc... everywhere in between those ages. Mateusz Nowicki and his bass and organ and voice were helpful in 2002, and Kacper Wojaczek and his keyboard and voice in 2012. 

Keith Hadad of Record Crates United recently interviewed me about the beginnings (and other things, too!) but if he was to ask me about PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC, he'd get (almost) completely different answers. Everything is relative and space is endless, and I strongly believe one man has more than one story to tell. But, for 2023, I will only have 2 stories. One of them will be the album "Bard's Woman in the Cool of the Summer Breeze" and the other PINK ELEPHANT MUSIC. I'm not sure how many volumes will be there, but I have 5 prepared. Volume 3 and 4 will be definitely coming this year. The rest of the updates in 2023. Stay tuna.

Tikal

At the dawn of time, cyclopean walls
Snake columns of fire
Feather god, ocean side, 12000 years
Stars regressing, stars conspire
Tikal – the heart of sun
Tikal – the sun empire

At the dawn of time, mists on ancient highways
Power plants and cities of our dreams
Heavy dragons headed horizon
Leather demons, sunken beasts
Tikal – the heart of sun
Tikal – the never ending feast

At the dawn of time, architects in spirals
Arabesques of the ancient skies
Utopias rebuilt inside a second
Endless roads to Venus and to Mars
Tikal – the heart of sun
Tikal – the buzzing god of flies

At the dawn of time, rebuilding galaxies
Earthworks of the primal universe
High rise blocks at the nest of this world
Urban jungles like a cancerous cell
Tikal – the heart of sun
Tikal – the vision well

At the dawn of time, sermons of chrome
Wheels of peace in turn
Darkest culture, secret rites, 12000 years
Earth must fall, stars must burn
Tikal – the heart of sun
Tikal – now in mighty ruin

At the dawn of time, cultures rise and fall
Rivers carrying the news
The jaguar must bathe in his own blood
The monkey attached to her views
Tikal – the heart of sun
Tikal – forever white and blue

Old Maid of the Mountain

Sentenced like a thief
For another week
Find another reason
Mountain tops so meek

Failures into gifts
Cheers Arabian nights
Here Victoria waits
Round Victoria Park

Here, she has her vest
Like an hourglass
At Victoria Park
Memories ever last

Here, you stand alone
Winds of time do blow
Here, seclusion sisters
There, a TV show

Sentence like a prayer
Mountain tops today
Saints of bop do practice
Dull orchestras play

Failures into speech
Fountains into beach
Build a Central Park
Let us into reach

Seventh sense of taste
Nine corrosive gates
Old into the night
New into the day

Al-Ghoul

Wind chime and guitar plays
the opening measures of "Amazing Grace"
delightful instant
in the first hour
of a new darkening island
bejeweled by moonlight
bliss-filled outer space drink
on architectural dynamics
forming figures of the clouds
alive, wrangling and untangling like vine
via black holes of pain
celestial blue flowers bloom atop
new cosmic roads
as you enter the palace of the great eternal
notice salvation their walls
gates their praise full of vine
that fulfills all desires
drowns your transcendental form
the abode of knowledge and sin
ocean of desire-fruit
ecstasy and intoxication
wasted embraces of time
why did we disturb our static immersion
in the peace and bliss of Al-Ghoul

At Fontanepromenade (2009)

At Fontanepromenade there is sunlight all the time
There’s this will to be weird, there’s this sentimental line
Sky Saxon on the radio, hippie boats on Spree
Freak flags flying high, there’s this will to be free
And to dive and to float and to be
In the universal eye of fantasy

At Fontanepromenade there is Marilyn in the nude
There are seven colored bottles, there’s a pusher in my tube
Lava lamp is glowing, vinyl’s spinning fast
A pirate retransmission drawn directly from the past
In her love in her song in her hips
There’s the universal truth of city kids

At Fontanepromenade there is magic of the spheres
There is Crowley at the shelf, there’s Blavatsky in the wings
There’s a TV show from Saturn, an interview with death
Zeppelins in Bohemia like a dragon on my back
Flying low catching up leaving Earth
In the universal eye of neverwere

At Fontanepromenade there’s a devil in my shoes
Devastating all the neons saying “Woman I Love You”
He’s got tired of the parks, all the parks they put him down
With their cans of beer a plenty, with the scent of bubblegum
In his mouth in his ears in his hands
Lies the universal truth of nowhere man

At Fontanepromenade there are mirrors on the floor
There’s a bathroom full of glue, there’s dementia up the walls
I’ve been cut eleven times by all these mirrors cracking up
Then I’ve took the elevator to the bottom of your cup
In the fuzz in the bliss in the pines
In the universal eye of Father Time

At Fontanepromenade the whole universe’s on fire
There’s a galaxy of thieves, constellations of desire
Pictures of Christine, her typewriter’s unaware
Rewrite Arabic poems, there’s this need to miscompare
And to rest and to sleep and to hide
In the secret depths of universal eye

At Fontanepromenade there’s a circus and a zoo
There are twenty-seven whores and they all are much like you
There’s Yahowa 13 on the melting TV screen
There are Stooges in the cupboard and I’m feeling pretty mean
While you dance and you turn and you swirl
In the universal truth of a girl

Razem (Polish lyrics, 2002).

Wyszedłem bardzo wcześnie
Wyszedłem skoro świt
Słońce głaskało mnie po twarzy
A ludzie dookoła
Tylko śmiali się
Czekając aż to słońce mnie sparzy
Lecz zawiedli bardzo się
I odeszli tak daleko
Bo im po prostu nie wolno marzyć
Wrócili do swych biur
Wrócili do swych szkół
A ja stoję i czekam co się zdarzy

Położyłem się na trawie
I spojrzałem w niebo
A przy mnie leżałaś już Ty
Spojrzałem w Twoje oczy
Lecz byłaś tak daleko
Realne stawały się Twoje sny
Zrobiłem to co Ty
Powoli odpłynąłem
Gdy ludzie wieszali na nas psy
Jesteśmy Razem!

Bird’N’Opiate

how British of
small nonsense
her sweets his///bird’n’opiate what’s up – I’ve heard the
sleeper drained the -peach, or what it was she
carried instead of purse speech of /rob the fashion
robbers stoop & red graffitis – yep, there
might be bop brick note to free jazz clouds repeating eating ting
things – bead/rain
clouds on brick spikes///bread
what was the image who was linguistics
was – have you decided for dogs swift the solid drift pass Baker
Street – babe, I’m not a tourist – my paths were there marked
1968 before through
cut screens I
cry
confuse it!

SLAVIA NOVA - Audio + Lyrics

I call her Slavia Nova, her face is cut in gold
We dance on future meadows when summer stars are cold
My little Slavia Nova, the future of this race
Bright white dawn on the highway, last moon comes down in lace

She guides the weary traveler, she shows the tramp his way
At daybreak birds are crashing into her rising brain
And everything is grooving, her rhythm fills the world
And so our globe’s her plaything and so the futures toll

I take her to my garden where everything is new
She shows me landing spaceships, I recognize the crew
The ones who came before us returned to take us home
Back to the primal garden where human seed has grown

3 poems originally published at ZONE (Argentina) May 13 2008.

Bridges

the far-eastern bridge of oil in orange
god-like
flows into the western bridge of sanity
blue-spotted gentle
crossing madly
the delirious bridge of yesteryear's passions
flavours
ornaments
street specimens
delicate voices of amber
death-angels
frozen in benevolent ashes
praying over restless bridges of amaranth
echoes
filled w/ jumpers & trombone masters
dildoed whores panicked
of the frequently damaged
White Corners
where poetry's jazz and jazz's poetry
neitherway
and anyone chooses trumpets of fervor...
blow!
bridges are
what bridges see
& what can we make of 'em
with diamond-hands
and hair of gasoline
burning
fanatic circles of flat notes
perfect
have I just heard the Blue Kantata
orchestrated
or was it just a vacant point
in the sweet time-ravaged
Hollywoods of glory...
it's all so jimdandy
dear Gina of honour...
and now
we're hitting
La Paz

Debasement

Oh the sweet art of debasement:
to breathe the very same air
cockroaches inhale
& to sleep w/ their
decadence debris
under roaring
refrigerator's
heaven...

to lie under Eiffel Tower
& any parisian sidewalk I'll find
effective
to radiate
with Madame Bleu
and her boys of reddening twilights:
the pursuer of noir city magic...

to throw my guts into the coin-box
spiting out verses at random
faceless landscapes throwing moons and
sunrays
and everyrays
between
for her harvest moon pleasure
where words are but ornaments
for
penetrating spirits

to crystallize the draperies of nite
saxes
wailing dead dramatists hoaxes
post meridian...

or to hear once again
the marked young man's confessions
send-up

sending you up and sending me down
shade-toxic bluntness:
must learn the fine art of debasement
to become
angels
not meat&bone&gut bags
or madmen dancing w/ fireworks
straw-men
with eyes wild on
panic buttons...

to find an escape
from escaping...

Ghosts of the miners

we, the Solar System renegades
we, the underpaid dogs of shark's fin soup
we, the in-crowd connoisseurs of awareness
we, the undemanding notes on chimney tops
writing in smoke
and water only
for fire is too hot to witness
and smoke can resist them all...
we, who come on patchy wings
of hyenas
piranha sailors on dead feet
like sculptures...
living on air and cat food promises
in the morning
we, the holders of hollow fibre ghosts
we, the white Indian partisans
of rhythm...
we, the narcissistic haters of
nihilistic manners
ambassadors of well-mannered old-fashioned
word-riddlers
martini drinkers
book-swallowers, sword-shapers
albino deconstructors
we, the sunlight over Monte Alban
in a greener kind of blue
than
ever by human imagined...
ghosts of the miners on turntable
patios
black velvet verandas
the day watch of deadly compromises...
we, the syllabic punch bowls
empty taxis at 3am
we, the drinker inside