on the molo at night, the swans will not respond.
the ramshackle fountain can not break its bonds.
the distance behind the sea, it tucked in like a sheet.
a cool white building shuns the company of the rest.
the idle shopper is caught out! and so must needs stay on.
see, the empty bars are full of golden pipes, leaking steam.
history hobbles on by with just the briefest of passing nods.
the molo by night is just as white as it is by day.
“don't say that!” the one says to the other, “just don’t...”
in the enchanted fountain, the gurgling gargoyles giggle.
this far north it can never be truly dark it seems.
a bar of inviolable sulphur cuts across the clouds.
access is achieved by the illegal band as a fish stirs below.
I can only guess at what is occurring beneath the boards.
seven sylvan swans are spiralling now in a malignant way.
the meeting in the town hall tower rages on, the subclause questioned.
“I don't even care what you meant,” it goes on, “just don’t say it.”
in the fountain bathes the bird, and the bird is god.
alone beneath the blueberry bushes at least...at last!
out at sea the massive nascent shape already is degraded.
the crowd gather with their torches, not yet lit.
in the white building (with the blue roof) they are dancing.
the entrance, though appealing, is descriptively a cul-de-sac.
on the in land every one is out.
the memory hotel is full but the doors, from the outside, are locked.
the demon is released by an accidental pattern in the dance.
the ragged rascal smoothes out upon the surprising powder sands.
screams from the memory hotel are eagerly recorded.
“just—I didn’t say that or anything—just.” it never stops
kashubia, kashubia, country of a thousand fishful lakes.
did I not mention the shipyards throwing up shapes and sparking?
the swans attend a meeting with their briefcases in their beaks.
the fountains’ overflow flows over the marauders, some are drowned.
pity the pitiful; hate the hateful; love the loveable.
the molo’s reach bisects this evening’s dashboard.
the semen of the demon on the running rail is gleamin’.
murder on the molo and the clues are all too clear.
watching the moon dissolve in light to shape the peninsular cloud.
the white building, don't you see it? the white building!
the massive mass floats nearer the pier.
the memory hotel gets forgotten and, neglected, starts to fall.
the drop of the molo props is not even where it stops.
the lover takes another and is beaten by my brother.
the devil is not on any level as he incarnates purest evil.
the swans will carry on though from their eyes we see it is no fun.
the hotel’s fall in a vicious squall in fact casts no pall.
in the fountain bowl there is a hole whose existence is foul.
the bandits are stranded, rounded up then branded.
the corrupted mass begins now to pass onto the relief of the grass.
the town gathers round and starts to burn the molo down.
the murder has been solved and, all involved, absolved.
golden fish on a carved silver dish are served with a swish.
space of the white building filled in by the white building.
the journeying sky is held up by an inhuman cry,
“look, I don’t care, just” don't say “that. the quarrel never” ends.
molo is polish for pier and the particular pier that features in this piece is rumoured to be the largest unsupported wooden structure of its kind in europe. it is situated in the north of the country in the faded grandeur of the old resort town of sopot. the details included in this piece all exist in some shape or form in sopot or its environs. “molo” is not pronounced to rhyme with “polo”, but rather with each ‘o’ pronounced as in “not”.