Birth. I was born in 1987 in Panevėžys (the fifth largest Lithuanian city known in the past for its theater, industry, and organized crime, not much else). Birth befell me two weeks early, and this was the first and since then the last thing to have happened to me too early.

School. I learned everything required for the survival of a young man in Lithuania in the most athletic school of my city. Any of the skills for swimming that I previously had I lost in the school’s swimming pool. It was a shallow pool, meant for walking. Others were luckier though; the school even raised some Olympic bronze medalists in swimming.

Studies. After school, in 2007, I enrolled into a Bachelor’s history program at Vilnius University. In 2012, having defended my thesis Students of the Jesuit Academy in the Public Life of Vilnius, I became an expert at students.

During 2013–2015, I studied for a Master’s degree in religious studies in the very same Vilnius University. I defended my thesis The Hesychastic Method of Prayer: Barlaam of Calabria’s and Gregory Palamas’s Polemic and thus became… I can’t quite describe who I became in simple terms.

Poetry. I began writing poetry while still in school, out of boredom, about when I lost all of my swimming skills. I had to do something, right? My works were published in cultural journals, and I have been a participant of poetry festivals (the Poetry Spring, Druskininkai Poetic Fall) since 2005. My debut e-book The Snake of Noise was released in 2017, which was included in the top twelve listing of the most creative books for 2017 and among the top five works selected for the Poetry Book of the Year competition of 2018.

Hobbies. Catholicism (though I am no professional Catholic yet), philosophy, photography, and pornography.

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reflections on belonging

a palmers chronicle right bw

Graphic Novels

Jonas Gasiūnas, Mermaid, 1991. From the MO Museum collection


by mistake


the crucified is like a marionette in the hands of whomever
touched his mother all over but through an angel they touched
as through a membrane they caressed until her body was fertilized
though maybe someone else in someway else also fertilized her body
as a woman through a great mistake (misbe-)held this text’s author
during the day of the eclipse (it was three o’clock) when
she (misbe-)held her own son born through suffering
having seen him there where automatic doors open and shut
bringing gust after gust of air the lights burning daylight
during the very eclipse during the christmas sale
she (misbe-)held this text’s author (it was three o’clock)
until the shoppers went by washed by waves of gusts and
rocked by shop window lights they continue to move and disbelieve
that all of this will end and probably don’t even consider
the nature of the doubtful beginning which as it were was not
because no one remembers it nor realizes that they long for it
nor do they know what they long for but are in that beginning
of coming together a coming and everything that suddenly begins



the glance of christ the king
once caressed his mast
but his granny made him read
his prayer book in church
and repeat the dull practice
of prostration til it hurt –
til the hand of christ the king
cracked off its statue and
began to fly about the nave
looking for clothes in which
to hide unseen whence
it would so sweetly sting



i am sterile you can stick a sterile tube in me
for sterile i am for your sterile scissors
my body without hair without organs
empty is this body empty you can stick
a sterile tube in me and draw something out
draw the unseen filling up of myself i’m filled with
but there is no more me in me for i’m sterile
sterile i am sterile you can play with me
and cut me up as you wish for i’m not fertile
and it’s safe for you with me I’m safe with you
i’m well preserved sterile i am sterile lacking
gaps lacking windows lacking eyes or mouth
having no nose nor vagina nor bladder
and no sphincter too so you’ll have to poke me
with something sterile if you want me
if you want to stick me with a tube and suck me




she poured her beer on my head
when i tried to kiss the cross
above her low-cut dress –
i just wanted to touch my lips to
the open wound of christ on her
i just wanted to breathe in
the red scent of the sore
but she took such fright of me
much as i had feared my god
before coming here – –

that was the tailpiece of my evening
for i don’t remember more
but know the flourescent bulbs went dead
and people went once more to work –
oblivious to all around them
having forgotten, as always, all of it


your boss’s office

the air and heated concrete have you
and the high-pitched sound
of a green walk signal
is taking you from behind
and as it finishes it tosses you straight
into the blast of blooming doors
where tentacles lovingly stretch from
the building’s guts to pull
you towards your boss’s office
that gently winks a glass eye
whose light reveals the inky rumble
of printers that shine a white angelic choir
and the words from the covered face
and plaster mask of your boss
meet you full of spunk while
pulsing word-dust glitters
from the bottom of that smile
to give the clocks their tone
without ever settling in them
in time withdrawing in time
back to the house of smiles
back to the mask’s abyss
whose lungs blow you
with the happy voice of your boss



with what to replace pork
if there were no more pork
my middle-class piggy
whose road from the office
through an accident-prone stretch
is similar to or calls to mind
freshly slaughtered fragrant pork
if only you would dare to smell it
if only you would dare to stop
instead of calling the police
instead of saving your brothers
you should have a taste instead
slicing off a piece of fellow pig
with a knife a swiss army knife
then putting it on a plastic plate
to have a taste in your car
having driven further away
from the eyes of the real cannibals



people scurrying in the streets with their ornery kids
are like shards of a great and omnivorous goal
and as a whole they’re like a wave that never breaks
even though it starts to break up on the inside until redeemed
it waits to be redeemed the flow of events awaiting redemption
from the outside from the flow of events itself with which
it is unconnected until the flow teaches it “from the outside”
and all its people like ornery kids all its people with no inside
which inside always swallows them squeezing them until some “I”
or other watches from his abode and is digested by that abode
(he writes up and writes down everything and only not true)



Translated by Rimas Uzgiris your social media marketing partner


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