1.

It’s 6:36 pm, the end of the year.
Raging wind won’t leave us in peace
The balcony lights boldly pierce the snow
Hooligans with beautiful crater-like faces
Cast a firecracker at a mutt as it runs across the street
It speeds into the middle of the roundabout named after ice hockey
It doesn’t take much to cause an accident under such circumstances

A woman with her makeup done and rollers tight in her hair
Slowly smokes a cigarette, before someone tells her about her husband’s accident
She won’t feel sorry for him
She already has a suit ready for when the black, longed-for mourning comes at last

Children, in a frenzy, rushed out of their homes, not questioned why
Mad, they set off Roman candles bought to them by their fathers

They lit a fire in the middle of the roundabout, those little harlequins
They made a ramp out of a car wreck and mashed carcass
Their eerie acrobatics delighting the residents of nearby blocks

Women, with uteruses prolapsing from all the aerobic, let their bitches out of the houses
They finished their makeup, in which they would like to be murdered
For they expected nothing else that year
Not since all they could hear was the lament of women from behind the walls

Their rollers started exploding on their heads
Disheveled, with makeup suddenly smeared over their faces
All of them, as one, grabbed their eyelash curlers
They pried their eyelids open so they wouldn’t fall asleep that night
They pulled each other’s eyelashes out
And threw them onto the frothy wind so it could carry them to the place
Where many other women hide

They used to frequent such places when they still had youth left.
The smoky hotel lobby, low ceilings, the communion-funeral hall
Red carpets with burgundy stains, blood plasma.
They remembered the dirt all too well

Hotel girls air out the rooms
Before the more important guests arrive
Some bitch in heat ran in
They say she came from a nearby village
She delivered them a package from the city women

Into the lobby blew their pus-drenched, maddened eyelashes.

They went hysterical, yearning to think back to those days and nights
When they still had the whole hotel in their hands.
One after the other, they rambled about what they remembered from those times.

In the heart of room 303, a hotel girl
Rips eyelashes out of her eyelids.
She hides them in her panties, then smells her fingers
Sticks them up her nose for a few minutes, inhaling

She will remind the bitches what a hotel night was to them.

The precise written rule between us
Says none of us will spill the beans, so all are welcome
I sit in room 303
And I know that no guests will return here tonight
And I smell so strongly you must come here at once

God, what a mess there is

She grabs a cloth and starts scrubbing the walls with it
She knows he’s still cheaply in love with her.
The room starts smelling of shit
So she goes at it with the rag
Begins to think that someone is hanging from the ceiling
That someone seeps through the walls
But she ignores the signals, blaming the medicine.

They will pull you down
Beware of us — the ungrateful bitches

She opens the door for him and tells him to make himself at home
You’re shaking so much that she already regrets
That you’re her guest for this hotel night
She starts rubbing a dirty cloth on her face
She makes it clear that there will be no more
Farewell-sex between them in this space.
He grabs her hand and says he only came to comfort
He begs her not to start that ludicrous behavior
But it’s too late, she feels provoked.

In the ground, holes are prepared for each of us, didn’t you know?
They’ve already taken precise measurements
So I’m always looking out, anticipating death
I look in the mirror and know that today I might meet my murderer
The one who finally comes with a knife, ties my hands behind my back
Me looking just as I always intended for this occasion
I practiced it too much, you won’t surprise me, you cunt.

I receive a holy furious eyelash in my eye
For girls like us, there’s always a place in my hotel room.
I am ungrateful, unkempt, languid
I feel huge, spread out, downfallen
I’m starting to enjoy the smell of dung
Don’t sit on this rag to please me
Sit down here and get rid of the air fresheners
I shall decide what today’s hotel night will fucking reek of.
I’m on sudden withdrawal, down the toilet I’ve flushed a blister of Trazodone
Next time, even if I beg you, don’t come.

But wait...
My eye itches, I need to scratch it
My eye itches.
For fuck’s sake

There she is trotting her feet in the hotel sheets
Doing it so precisely as if she’s tearing off traces from them
Traces of what, you ask?
For now, you only know that she’s returned from abroad
Where she was to stay, where she was to bring you over to,
Being mighty in love and suicidal, all at the same time.
But you said: I’m strong, I’ll come and save you at last.
You meet again at the same hotel as two months earlier,
Just as she promised you in the driveway
Now she comes out of the bathroom and sits down, bare pussy against the dirty floor.

I told you how I used to steal those tiny bottles from the minibar,
Steal hotel-brand cookies, to nibble away
The guilt
But today, they’re no longer here with me.
I just want to pass my memories onto you before I die.
I want you to see these
Badly arranged sheets,
The rooms I cleaned so poorly.

Me fucking the Polish diaspora, regardless of gender or political views
Fucking everyone, as if there were no courts in the world
Wait, one more time:
Me fucking the Polish diaspora, regardless of gender or political views
Fucking everyone, as if there were no courts in the world.

Have I told you how badly I cleaned the room for that student?
The fucking cunt called her parents, who bravely intervened

- Can you fix it now?
- No, szefie, cause I’m off
And I opened that sequin bag from the charity shop,
Proving that I have no funds.
‘’clean I have got not’’

Briff, oven cleaner, oven pride, oven brite
Oven spierdalaj, go fuck yourself

The day before, instead of cleaning,
I drank with a Pole on the couch in her room
Whom I was warned to be careful around
You probably would’ve wanted to tell me to be careful too.
And you wouldn’t want to have seen how I, with no panties on,
Awkwardly licked her breasts in the park at dawn
I still believe the diaspora condemned me for naught
One of the first slut shaming moments
In my crazy slut-life.

2.

She sits on the couch next to him, a Pole nicknamed Harakiri
His countrymen gave him that nickname so weary
Since he once cut himself on his stomach, quite teary
Both of them exhausted by their roles
In this duo of blameworthy cleaners

With nostrils wrapped in chemicals
But despite this,
She can smell him
It’s the scent of bad homes
Homes from a degraded slum,
Of low indicators,
Affected by social diseases.

The Polish diaspora had warned her about him,
Warned that if she ended up on the couch with him, it would be it,
The chick would be whacked,
It’s a ghetto anomaly,
It’s a no hi, no how you doing
It’s a:

She opened the door and all I saw was her juicy ass,
She turned it towards me that way
In order for me to see,
That she’d hooked up with the guy,
The one with higher status
The pizza-joint manager,
The rad sneakers standing like statues in his bedroom.

We were equal,
We were just as fucked up,
You could’ve been my fucking wife,
You could’ve been my fucking wife.

Back then, I was sitting on the couch with Harakiri
We complained about the rates
With the difference that I needed money for Primark sprees, and he for a house
We complained about the fact he couldn’t clean up your mess in one night
Eventually, he grabbed my hand and pressed it to his tired head,
His head so tired from working in your filth.
And he did nothing else.

Wait, I need to make a call.
Sorry, M, for leaving a huge blood stain on your bed
Though your father gave me this job.
Sorry for not cleaning up after myself and you,
With ‘’409 Oven cleaner’’,
Perfect ‘’Finish Cif’’.
I know you too think about that morning in the park sometimes.


But in this hotel I clean flawlessly
I missed this foul place
Here I am a classist bitch with a high-school diploma,
I’ve learnt this very manner from a contemporary writer
The phone rings: Need cleaning after the Chinese urgently

Now, wipe off those oils
The fried stuff
The thick, greasy hair in the shower.
In the writer’s book, from whom I learned this meticulous art,
It’s Mrs. Elka who would be talking
On my job, I talk myself
On my job, the writress talks
On my job, the paintress talks
On my job, the sculptress talks
About high cultural competence indicators
About sharp observation of socially degraded areas
Affected by mental illness,
Watching the social diseases wisely

I know what’s not done in hotels since I’ve been cleaning them.
And I know you do it.
I see what you all do in the hotels
Where no one is watching you
Which means in every hotel.
I know everything you do with sheets,
Soaps, shampoos.
I know every unusual place for free accessories
Used in an unusual way by you.
I pulled out meters of hair from the floor drain
Dripping our hastily trimmed beards, asses, cocks
Sputum, phlegm, lichen-tainted cotton pads

I’ve seen the full picture of your previous night
When I was sleeping off in your paid-for room
The one I was sure you wouldn’t come back to
Because you two had quarreled terribly

I squeeze my eye out before your very eyes,
I squeeze my non-working Meibomian glands empty
To deprive myself of an eye,
That’s no crime, is it, Your Honor?
This is my style now, the eyeless
Just a few more hours and the hotel night will come to an end

She leaves the room wrapped up in nothing effective
As if she’d never stopped pressing the paper version
of the “Virgin Suicides’’ against her chest
Her pretentiousness carries her body

And she cares nothing about the words coming from the other rooms:
412 “Don’t steal from me.”
414 “I saw you took my lady’s lipstick, give it back, you filthy skank!”
Shut up, you chambermaid whore!
What do I need lipstick for when I saw the white leather binder in room 106?
And 106 is one of those who never call the police!
She drags him with her just so
He can see her put the binder on herself.
Lara bitch... Lara bitch... Lara bitch...

3.

Meanwhile, in the foyer, other hotel girls
Make sure everything the gentlemen put in their mouths
Reminds them of their pulsating hard cocks.
Oops, they added some pussy, some rabies-drenched eyelashes
To their keto diet
They watch as he raises a lash to his lips
Tastes it as if he never had had one before
It’s clear he’s never properly licked anyone's eye

Having gone downstairs, he notices the owners of the white binder
They see her wear it
Look at us looking at each other!
You could shit yourself and you still couldn’t get such eye contact
Not even with your two fucking eyes
He hands him a gauze stained with ocular stains.
Now, the real disco begins
The girls turn off the lights
A “happy new year” song is on fire.

I see how he captured her,
Caught her when she was most vulnerable,
Caught her in a moment
And now she feels like she’s just had an orgasm
Like there’s little she could do
Stains spring out of her body
A blend of mucus and sweat
She collapsed onto the floor as if
It were her swan lake,
As if she wanted to nestle in her own
Discharge
He slipped on the floor
Because of that amphora, the beautiful girl
She’s yearning to soon absorb him whole
With the thick saliva from her glands
But the cop presses her firmly against himself
As only a ridiculed man can press one
His monstrous belly pressing between her ribs and iliac crest
He charges at her with his chin too
Grabs her neck and forehead,
So as the chin fits perfectly into her auricles,
To stun her
In this very moment.
And now, only his belly and chin speak
They say “I adore you, I worship you,” and then he lets go.

I catch a glimpse of them hasten to the room on the top floor
Knowing her abilities, she will make it before the hotel night’s over.

If you really want to save me tonight
Here’s the card to room 120
Bring me the brothel creepers

She sniffs a chemical agent and sinks
She looks at the guests' shoes, mercilessly judging their style:
Loafers, pointed shoes, the Russian bazaar, brand shops
This man is only here to fuck
Well, there are still some who offer her working abroad too
Good work, foreign money, not the Polish, inflationary, First Communion-gift money.
That’s like twice as much, but in a week
I’ll always recognize the face of a pedophile
Same goes for her, so run for your life, every man for himself.
I’m going to wash off the stain she left, bring me the ‘’105 oven’’.

She checks what’s on his feet – grimy Timberlands.
How could you have so painfully confused those names?
Now, take care of yourself and find me a first-aid kit.
Some rabies-drenched eyelashes infested my hollow eye socket.

4.

Unclear time, during the hotel night.
She opens the door to room 303.
She clearly sees the stain on the carpet,
The one they’ve all scrubbed fruitlessly one by one, yesterday and the day before.

So it wasn’t just their delusion.
Foam starts dripping from the mouths of all the hotel girls when they hear the news
Turns out this stain renews itself every few hours
The matter’s murky and stinky.
She steps in to examine it closely.
On the bed lies a man tied up with bike inner tubes.
He tries to say something, but she’s focused on the stain.
She takes cleaning products out of her sequined bag.
She lied, saying she didn’t have them on her.
God, this stain is like a recurring stye on my eye.
She bends down and starts compulsively scrubbing.
Her brain is now focused solely on this.
A famous transgender model enters the room.

“Calm down, do your thing, I just came to check out the stain.”
The model sits down on both him and her.
Her splits are impressive, her legs extend
So much that one hooks over the bed frame,
The other reaches where the girl is cleaning the stain.
The stain can’t wait.
But her leg, that foot.
She abandons the stain and sits on her.
He watches from the hallway, holding a first aid kit in his hand.
He will never sleep again without the image of his ex
Rubbing her pussy against that foot.
Probably, on his way back home driving to the city,
He’ll crash the car from all this.
In one hand, she’s still holding the rag.
She’s wiping rhythmically as she rubs against the leg
The stain will disappear once I’ve cum.

She leaves, trembling, onto the orgasm-pulsating corridor
She swells, becoming vast again, she spills out
Here and there she sheds yet another stain.
Her unwashed feet in the filthy Timberlands
Draw the attention of many a deadbeat

Come on here, you maniac.
You look like you used to come here in ’95.
Take your buddy to my room.

That night, she didn’t take her meds
And that’s why she saw clearly
She never wants to ignore what appears on this wall again
Hanging from the ceiling
It stains, it leaks in room 303.
It is one entity
It is one person
She disappeared in ’89 — that’s when a lot had to be rebuilt
A poor time to search for missing girls, trannies, dykes
Girls of transparent skin splashing all over the world
Quick deduction makes it clear these two men shall answer for this today

That figure’s hanging from the ceiling again
Bitches are howling, barking with their cunts
Fighting with those wanting to finish them off with sticks at the foyer
My eye begins to spurt pus that stinks like shit
I start to squeeze all my sebaceous glands empty
I blindly blind those two
One of them grabs a bottle of ‘’cleaner oven’’
And smashes my head with it.
The boy made it before the hotel night was over.
I join the walls and carpets.

In your rented hotel
I become yet another unwashed