I know my cat likes them dangols and jingols.

As long as it hangs, it’s pattable. My ears hang enough. If I was an elf, I would have scars on them. Done by restless hunter of portruding things.

My cat likes dangols and jingols. Yes, he does.


malva blooms
through the cracks in my bench
mal for darkness of my heart
va for friends I always lose
among the fertile garden
bleeding flowers sprout the thorns
my second skin
built with marble moth wings
a feelingproof cocoon
for my insecurity
I am made of malvas
mal for gloom that eats my soul
va for hearts I always break
drifting in the sea of oblivion
hunting for unreachable stars

… and there is always that lingering thought, on the periphery of the brain: is this me who hurts the toxic people leaving them? Is the me doing wrong, taking care of my mental stability? Even if I knew the answer, there was that guilt crawling inside like a parasite and slowly eating subconsciousness.

But enough with that. I won’t be an ass to myself. It’s enough that others are.

Water of Life

I want to dive into creativity like in a pool filled with water of life.

But… not the life-giving water that will prolong it and gives me health. Nononono.

I want a Dune-like water of life, which will turn and twist my guts and spawn characters that will cause you love them and despair.

I want to create the end of all of things and go even further.

[ I am an evil mother for my imaginary children. The dose of suffering is almost legendary. ]

Someone stops me…


A word for people in Tolkien fandom, whose tongue drips with venom:

Tolkien believed in good. But don’t be fooled that he would see it in people who throw insults at the actors, bash the new show from left to right like pinata, or speak negatively of people who genuinely enjoy the new production. He would speak his mind, because he believed in good. Such people not necessarily are timid or frail.

Wasting time and effort on pointless hatred is seemingly a part of our age. Don’t be an ass. Don’t follow the hate trend. Enjoy and allow to enjoy others.

This world already is a hell pit. Don’t add additional kindling to already bursting fire.

Copper Complexion

My angel has copper complexion.

In the corner of my eye, where shadow meets sun, I see the figure. Everytime. I can’t escape, nor I want to. It hangs over my daily life like a bat in the dark cave. Like it broke through the time and was cemented in a pose which doesn’t suit it.

Rusty face, surrounded by halo, it looks like corroded metal, licked by a sudden burst of light. It waits. Silently, with one hand reached out, always pleading to touch, but never touching. A mannequin made of hope and disgrace, a river full of blessed waste.

Its nails almost brush my hair and in periphery of my gaze, I see its hand, brass skin, dark faces reflecting in it. Its arm is like a water touched by the note from the depths of the earth. With souls of forgotten melted within it, looking just into me. Screaming to be let out.

Its eyes drowned in this indifferent, stale face, they are like talk with a god that decided to abandon its creation. Eyes, white blood gathering in the corners, pale blue, stark, like a moment of beautiful morning. Yet cruel, as touched by sin unspoken, darkness triumphant.

It looms over me, flickers, wherever I look. A cacophony of sound, in a silent, peaceful forest.

My angel has copper complexion.

And will be there as long as I live, hidden, like marble statue, pouring malice, feeding on me, trying to touch… trying to feel. Destined to fail, my guardian, stagnant silhouette, bathed in frail shadows.


To spot the cursed lord ghost, who haunts the castle in the south Poland, taking form of a giant black dog:

  • take your maddest friend on board and fill them with visions of ghost hunting, where everything can go awry.
  • wear something indicating you are dark lords too, like black capes, it always works.
  • spend the night in the castle, joking from giant dogs and jumping on every louder sound, laughing your socks off, and assuring each other that it was surely the ghost.
  • when you leave the castle, LIE to all, that you barely came alive from the encounter.

It must work. Best vacations trip ever.

Bonus, if you have a black dog and manage to make a dangerous photo of it during night. A bit of Photoshop and your dog can put Baskervilles hound to shame. Remember, angle can make him look TERRIBLE.

Made of Starlight

We are made of starlight and green limbs of the earth. We are deceiving eyes, waiting for their prey, while vast overgrowth whispers our names, chants our titles.

Trees lick the blood and suck the darkness from our veins.

Welcome to an unseelie court.

I am starting to write my trickster fae novel. There will be spiders and rose petals. They will be love and scorn.

And there will be pointy ears flashing through the woods.


Forever Is a Long Time

Forget forever, forest child, as forever is bathed in forgetness. The more you live, the more tucks in dark caverns of the brain and is swallowed by time. Eaten by days that pass, drank by nights that cradles us to sleep. Forget forever, as forever is really a long time.

I never cried after my father, he was always a threat in my life, a dark candle burning over my safety, its light flickering over my happiness. When he died in flurry of blood, just before my eyes, I felt nothing. It was like dark flame of his existence created a black hole in which all my feelings were sucked and pressed by gravitation.

I felt like the same black hole spits me in another dimension, into much kinder world, lacking him, his insults and drunk presence. I felt like my dark wings gain feathers, not less black, but softer.

And I still didn’t feel anything.

But I am scared how short my memory reaches into days when he was alive. My memory, a thing I was always proud of, doesn’t summon his face, his voice and even events which were good, when we both were younger and better and our relation wasn’t stained by vodka.

I remember… nothing.

Aside of a day, when he took my dog and returned without her. My memory had to filter this of all, leaving hazy days of youth in annoying pit of forgetness.

I would like to remember, I would like to choose what I remember. But maybe it’s better that way.

I don’t want to remember some things, that I would be too afraid to recall, if I did. And I know they would be coming back.

And forever is really a long time.

The Baker

For my cat, who is maybe old, but with age comes experience – he is the best baker.


my ginger leaf, amber shadow
rose skin covered with rust
baker of the morning cookies
you knead the dreams
with taloned paws

your voice descends on the pillow
a ragged tune of content
copper lazy days
filled with your autumnal gaze

brownies and milk
tucked into goose feathers
like a mole hidden underground
you lift sharpest eyes to the sun
embracing the world that needs
a good bakery, when night shuts its door
giving a way to the waking daylight

To Goth or Not to Goth

Me: I want to be clad in black goth girl, black eyeliner, black lipstick, lace, latex and vampire fangs, all enveloped by wings of darkness.

Me (as well): I am too lazy to wear all that stuff and bite my own lips with fake fangs. I am too lazy to be a good goth.

I ended as a messy forest spirit, wearing crown of leaves, branches vest and nothing more. Leaves. Leaves everywhere! Gloriously unorganized…