procession-like, unspeakable, in the air,

if the molecules keep me suspended, stuck

to the brown, disgusting greaseproof paper,

the squares without force,

slippery plant stems, swelling leaves,
matching eyes, the surrounding artificial parks,
swollen words,

like mercy, love, or the hammerhead shark—outdated,

hopes fallen into sleepless calculus,

equations whose result is hysterical laughter,

happy, sad, or looking away,

you still could not decide whether evil exists at all,

or only wounds carried over from childhood;

the smell of sadism radiating from the news,

the happiness of self-deception----------

frightening, sad, or both at once,

it would be good never to think again,

to remove my brain and throw it in the bin,

incoherence and inconsistency,

my happy stammering: they are like light,

like bright birds flying out of my chest,

tears that do not become sobs,

a scream that does not become an echo,

the civilisation I have to live in is collapsing,

but never mind,

the Moon, the Sun, the stars: independent,

this human world now—only a step

on the way to the shop

on the road

yesterday I saw the third hedgehog this week

that had been run over

each one bursts differently

their brains, their blood, their flesh around them

I no longer even count the squirrels that have been hit

sometimes there is a cat as well

or a fox

they are left there

like a piece of rubbish

magpies and crows peck at their flesh

but only until

more cars come along

and crush their bodies

into the tarmac

every year
more than 60 million animals are killed on the roads

sixty million — like an entire country
and this does not include the snails

A country of animals slaughtered by vehicles

I have always been glad I do not have a car

and I do not have a driving licence either

it feels good

not to be part of this

we are small, and leave no trace
every future is only chance
I do not even know
what will happen five minutes from now
I just listen to you
watch your lips
touch the sad lines of your face
I am weak
a thin branch
fragile, sorrowful and still
I do not understand
what is going on around me
things happen
they laugh, they cry
they sleep
and if, sometimes, I feel free
I always fall somewhere
time
which I no longer dare to count
devours me in the end
digests me
and I let it, helpless
while I think of you, of Mum
and of my childhood

The greatest spectacle on our planet,
Its greatest event, is not the football World Cup,
But the act of self-destruction we are engaged in:
The climate crisis, the extinction of species,
The damage inflicted by our industry and economy,
Inequality, the pillaging of nature,
And the slow, systematic destruction of our world.

And yet, whenever I open any news outlet,
From the BBC to The Guardian, all the way to The New York Times,
Everywhere I look, they are publishing thousands
of articles and photographs about football,
Endlessly idiotic celebrity stories, recipes,
Inane images - and almost nothing about reality.

The press is one of the driving forces of this age of stupidity.
It is hard to believe that we really are this absurd.
It is hard to accept that this age is truly so morally bankrupt,
And it is profoundly sad that I have to live here,
In this fucked-up, primitive civilisation,
Among eager, cheerful, paid-to-smile fools.

This world is horrifying.

Rabbits live in the shadows of chairs

their long ears rest gently against the door

photons, obstacles - all they need
like the first living things on earth

like their very first fear, their very first joy

endless strings of misplaced questions

most of them assuming intention

or suggest that an explanation exists

because whatever lives is afraid, alert as I am now

I constantly process data

most of it distorted by emotion

dressing false conclusions up as birds

I weave opinions for myself out of fallacies

I judge things too hastily

because, after all — what is all this?

I think I have no answers

to a single real question

only quieter and quieter with fear

though there should be nothing to fear — because

what cannot be changed remains

whatever I do

others will still break things, still make war

still consume and believe in nonsense

and whatever you say

until someone feels grace in their heart

until empathy floods their mind

with profound compassion

they will only smile at you

step over the suffering of others

and you can say anything to them

they will carry on
as they did before.

A megbocsátás szép dolog, a szeretet is.

A magyar sajtóban sorozatosan jelennek meg volt politikusnak álcázott bűnözők szinte már-már portrénak álcázott interjúi - a sajtó kényszermozgásos munkatársainak nagy többsége már ott tart, hogy megbocsátana a szegény, elesett fideszes politikusoknak. Nekem és szerintem sok más embernek ez valamiféle perverz Stockholm-szindrómának tűnik...

Én tizenhat éve a Fidesz győzelme után kényszerültem külföldre menni, mert nem akartam egy végtelenül lezülleni kezdő világban élni - szóval ha már megbocsátás és együttérzés, akkor a magyar média talán morálisan helyesebb úton járna, ha a fideszes szociopaták, tolvajok, korrupt politikusok, morálisan zéró városvezetők, báb köztársasági elnökök interjúztatása és megértése helyett inkább olyanokkal készítene interjút, mint Nagy Navarro Balázs, Schiff András vagy bármelyik másik több százezer magyar, aki menekülni kényszerült a a fent említett emberek által kreált rendszer elől. Sokan a családjukkal - pici gyerekeikkel együtt és ez nem hatásvadász töltelékmondat - ez történt. És most megint nem azokról beszélnek akikről kellene, hanem azokról akiket elfelejteni kellene.

A magyar sajtó többsége félművelt hülyékből áll? Igen, úgy tűnik TGM-nek ebben igaza volt.

A Fidesz NER nevű rendszere emberek tömegeit - elsősorban az innovatív gondolkodásra képes réteget, szabadgondolkodókat, a gerinceseket akik nem akartak az uram-bátyám világ mocsarában dagonyázni - kényszerített nyugatra, miközben ezermilliárdokat loptak el és a nepotizmussal tönkretettek minden valódi fejlődést, a művészetben olyan rombolást végeztek a kontraszelekcióval, amilyen még Kádár alatt sem volt - és ez még a negyede sem a bűneiknek.

Nagyon üdítő lenne, ha a magyar média munkatársainak az emlékezete hosszabb lenne az aranyhalénál  - hiszen fél éve még rendes, szabad sajtótájékoztatót sem kaptak az államtól, a legegyszerűbb kérdéseikre sem adtak válaszokat nekik, sem adatokat az adatigényléseikre, most meg úgy tesznek - csak mert a rendszer megváltozott, mintha természetes lenne, hogy szabadon kérdezhetnek és válaszokat is kapnak.
Ez talán természetes nyugaton, de korántsem az Magyarországon - ahol talán most van először esély a történelme során arra, hogy valódi demokráciája legyen - nah, nem a magyar sajtó munkatársainak többségének köszönhetően (és ezt nem a propagandistákra értem), mert ha rajtuk múlt volna ma is NER lenne,

Tehát - javasolnám, hogy nem kell képmutatónak és legfőképpen még önmagukhoz mérten is bolondabbnak lenni a bolondgombáknál - kicsit kevesebb Stockholm-szindróma és képmutatás jobban állna nekik, mint ahogyan az is, hogy úgy akarják eljátszani a kiegyensúlyozott tájékoztatást, hogy morálisan teljesen nulla embereket beszéltetnek. (Ennek is van helye, persze, de az arányok...azokban lakik az ördög.)

... és a mindezt a nagy "megbocsájtósdit" úgy akarják eljátszani a médiában, hogy a mai napig egyetlen fideszes politikus sem állt fel a parlamentben, és kért bocsánatot az országtól és nemzettől, amelyet kifosztottak, megaláztak, és amelynek tizenhat évét és a legtöbb EU-s forrását nagyipari módon ellopták. Szerintem - megbocsátani csak annak lehet, aki bocsánatot kér. 

Egyébként. Ha ez a váltás most nem lett volna, jelenleg épp tolná le a keserű mézbe mártott orbáni fütyit törvények és egy éjszaka megírt rendeletek formájában a fideszes propaganda a kedves újságírók és médiamunkások torkán, és valószínűleg épp készítenék elő a törvényeket, amelyekkel mondjuk megszüntették volna az online előfizetési lehetőségeiket, meg az 1%-ot esetleg csak azok kaphatták volna meg akikre a Gazda rámutat.

Szép dolog az love és a megbocsátás. Főleg ha mindegyik a helyén van kezelve, adva és kapva. A bűnösöket nem kell megalázni, bántani és hazudni róluk, de szeretni sem kell őket és emberarcúnak sem kell őket ábrázolni - a kiegyensúlyozott tájékoztatás nem azt jelenti, hogy ölelgetjük azokat akik fél éve még teli pofával hazudtak minden egyes percben és teli szájjal mocskolódtak.

Amikor a fideszes politikusok a demokráciáért, szabadságért aggódnak az olyan mintha Rákosi és Sztálin egy-egy transzparenssel a kezükben, amelyen mosolygós fejecske van egy szívben - kiállnának tüntetni az emberi jogokért a Kossuth térre.

Ne legyünk Stockholm-szindrómás aranyhalak.

Intellectual fantasy, about beauty —

about love. Why are freckles wrong?

Abstract agony with polyester tulips.

Tiny little snowflakes in the dreams of embers?

Peeling the thousand layers from ourselves?

And when you realise the bottommost one does not exist.

Do we lie even to ourselves?

There is no free will, dualism sleeps,

materialism laughs, symbiosis dances,

and I merely mouth words — unconsciously.

Is this meant to be your philosophically disguised gaze?

Your daily suffering, imagined to be carefree?

The role you put on before speaking, before appearing?

And what if there is no excitement, if there is no doubt left?

If you are not afraid, not anxious, not sweating?

Welcome to the island of antisocial personality?

To the left, cynicism; to the right, cruelty;

ahead, in the second room, personas;

in the middle of the island, a mansion in which there are

icicles, cameras, and beautiful clothes.
Are you creating a podcast? Talking, talking about nothing?

Are you baring your body for money?

Are you making a fake AI content to sell?

Are you posting the thousandth photo of that tourist spot?
Fantasyland of bleeping beeps.

But who cares about this world?

Who cares about money? The decay of our skills?

Intellectual fantasy, about change?

About the dick-measuring monsters of our abused world?

I sleep; in my dream, I dance with you,

birds are hiding in your beautiful long hair,

ants chase one another at the tips of our fingers,

this here is a silver self-cage, with all kinds of plants growing inside it,

there is no plastic in it, no commerce...

No religion — only science and learning.

Intellectual fantasy, about progress?

I do not know, I do not care, I have no opinion.

I sleep, and as I dream, I smile,

strawberries fall into my mouth, and you embrace me —

we listen in the dark, then laugh at this:

This here is our shared

"Intellectual fantasy about love."

I would write you something beautiful,
raindrops set to music,
but I can't any more.

When I try to imagine a feeling,
it no longer works.
Am I broken?
Can I no longer feel?
Has the loneliness of all these years emptied me out?

I see no embrace.
I feel no want for a kiss.
I cannot imagine any intimacy.

I would only work,
do what has to be done.
Cleaning, preparing food, staring at the garden,
watching the harvestmen,
smiling at my plants,
being glad of the rain,
waiting for the night.

I do not speak for days.

I miss you like spring,
which is gone by June.
It is like something one must always wait for,
and when it is here, it hides,
so that one has to wait again.

And by the time you play this through with it
again and again,
you will be wrinkled,
and you will die of it,
as of every love
that caused too much pain.

breath spent in sleeplessness
plain, pointless sighs, no less
behind the walls, more walls appear
I stare at the ceiling, silent here
like a blocked, aching distant love

I pull a plush frog from my mouth, laughing,
while the sunset dances.
The blind throws up a sickly yellow radiation
as I shift from one imagination
into another, where veins are drawn
onto my wounded imagination till dawn

a cloud makes soup out of itself
its face melts slowly, grimace by grimace
curled-up longings, grey bodies numb
frayed, obscene pictures of loneliness
clog the tear ducts, meaningless
and wait for your cool, graceful hand

until I wake

scorched birds are falling from the red clouds
dried-out mouse carcasses among the blades of grass
soft carpets of flying ants on the asphalt
the phosphorescent landscape moans

the heat raves on the turntables of the living dead
the cicadas are fucking a grass snake’s corpse
in the garden, tea is brewing in plastic pools
in the pathetic world of homo sapiens
the counterfeit creator, shrieking behind a human disguise
dreams up another business enterprise

to the rhythm of humming air conditioners, the wasps dance
in the cool rooms, ghosts sharpening their teeth are asleep
product gods chant the liturgy of marketing
all is dying
but they keep mating, eating happily
and between two pleasures
every minute they destroy three other minutes

I am afraid of our world,
of the direction
in which we are moving,
driven by our greed,
our endless selfishness.

Whatever I do, there is no escape any more,
no way to get out of it,
to hide,
to run from the consumption.

Destruction has become part of normality.
I am afraid among you,
afraid of our hypocritical, sanctimonious, foolish civilisation.
We damage so much.
Morality has become a matter for legal interpretation.
Truth is a narrative.
Self-restraint is a joke,
and everything is a product.

I am afraid of what awaits us
if this mad giant falls,
if, in a world turned into a marketplace, one raw material runs out,
if people realise
that their own leaders deceived them,
if they realise they were lied to,
that they were made to sacrifice their own children's future
under the false promise of endless consumption,
and hopelessness,
fear,
and primitive, scapegoating rage once again
turn the world
into a place of horrors ----
in a matter of minutes.

I am afraid of this roaring blindness.

we are still lying
beautifully self-deceived

is selfishness not our guiding principle?
we drive it to the brink
there is no stopping

forty degrees will become forty-five
then fifty

millions will lose everything
will many more be lost themselves?

just
because
our only philosophy
our global language
our main ideology
remained greed?

be sarcastic
and smile

be highly educated
sapio-egoistic

who deserve more meat
more travel
more money
more oil
more plastic
more tourism
more AI
more data centres
more social media

no, no green

more oil-based industry
more capitalism
more banality
more corruption

and more la-la-la
and la-la-la-la

sing-song
and happiness

mock this climate alarmism
laugh it off
carry on with business
as usual

<3 <3 <3

> :-)

LOL?

Morton Feldman starts the day
at last, something cheerful?
the piano’s sound barely glimmers
as if, sitting on the floor,
with hands held up high,
it were flailing in the air

two days in Budapest
supposedly
the regime changed
they pass themselves off as middle class
whatever that means
Engels, Piketty, Ehrenreich
would smile
at this muddled dream
of returning polgárság
but I see no change...
sixteen years ago
I left this place
in a similar mental state

where I am hardly matters
the story could have gone anywhere by now
the agony may be drawn out a little longer
so long as there is raw material
the business can keep running
they can go on playing soldiers
they can take pleasure
again and again
in carrying on
the denial of reality.

we work, we trade
we hit, we hit back
we are flowers grown downwards
if only I could write something beautiful about us
something touchingly gentle
something like
we could be smarter
or we could be more honest
stupid as we are, still
greedy as we are, still...

but these are feelings
personal avalanches
my thoughts mean nothing
against the full landscape
the whole thing
rotten and functioning
in the chaos

my laptop screen in the dark
attracts the fruit flies
I admire them
they bring life into the room
diversification
existence
competition
quick mating and reproduction
and the fact that somewhere
there is a rotten apple
nearby
it must be delicious.

while heatwaves are searing the world
the BBC analyses smart glasses on its front page
publishes recipes
and analyses football matches
the Guardian writes about the new trillionaire
publishes recipes
and analyses football matches
Netflix churns out new series
people publish TikTok videos about their next holiday
etc.
and I just do not care anymore
this is the age of collective irrationality
where, as we move closer to self-destruction
we behave globally
like a chain-smoker
who knows about his lung cancer
but enjoys cigarettes so much
that even in hospital
they still go outside for a cigarette
exhaling the fumes
while slowly
but surely they will die.

The sky low on the horizon at dawn is dark orange,
like the wildlife documentaries of my childhood,
the ones about the savannahs.
In the garden: fig trees, avocado, persimmon —
things we once saw only in shops,
now growing here,
in the middle of Europe: an African savannah.
Mediterranean, southern fruit in the north.
I am waiting for the first banana plantations in Scandinavia.

Scorched grass, dusty air that burns the eyes,
while people swarm through shopping centres,
planning new cars,
staring at the football World Cup,
stuffing their faces with pretzel sticks and crisps,
guzzling beer.
Our politicians, deals already struck,
lie and lie,
putting on plays,
each in their role, from right to left,
mixed together,
all selling the same wares:
the magic mushrooms of likeable, popular self-delusions.

Three decades ago, change might still have been possible?
Today? I doubt it — but I am no one.
I just feel that
Our sarcasm becomes a scream.
The religion of consumption
turns into blind self-destruction,
ruining the future of our own descendants,
robbing our own children and grandchildren of everything
needed for life,
squandering it all in the present.

This world here,
this age of spectacle, appetite and denial,
is built around maximising consumption:
a theatre of domination and consent,
where power and victim perform like professionals,
singing the duet
of the sadist and the one with Stockholm syndrome,
part of the same kitschy, sorrowful performance.
And
We only play our roles,
do our jobs,
tired beyond words.
It is endlessly sad.

And still we believe we can do anything;
or rather, that nothing unpleasant,
painful, uncomfortable
has to be done.
A couple of solar collectors, a wind turbine — enough.
Or now, the latest fashion: AI will solve it,
while vast new data centres
feed the climate disaster.
The usual business and greenwashing is keep going.
And we laugh, grin — lie,
at every level,
from business through politics
to the majority of voters.

The sky low on the horizon is orange.
The dust sands my cornea.
I run silently along the Danube embankment.
Hot wind ruffles the yellow grass.
The forest is still so beautiful.
I hope the trees do not know
their yellow leaves are not autumn,
but UV radiation on such a scale
that already in June
it has brought them
the hot, seasonless,
sorrowful future.

The park is dark yellow again.

Almost everything has burned down
into yellow, ochre, umber, black.
Even the greens seem repainted
by the oily fingers of consumption.

The same heat in the north, in the south.
The Earth is feverish.
Air conditioners breathe cold air
into its burning face.

Most people still do not care.
They leave for trips, festivals, islands.
The airports are packed.
The fast-food chains and famous brands
make more profit.
The factories and slaughterhouses
continue their usual work.

Nothing —
absolutely nothing —
has changed.

For decades, I have taken no holidays abroad.
No more flying.
I do not eat meat. I own no car.
No social media.
I do not watch the next stupid Netflix series,
or worship sport from a sofa —
people watching sport from a sofa
while they drink and eat more.

And somehow, I am the strange one.
I am the weird.
Those who consume more
are called normal.

This is a planet size madhouse.

Nature is dying, burning out;
almost everything is vanishing.
Still they carry on enjoying themselves.
They move the summer holiday to autumn.

Problem solved?

And the politicians they elected
do nothing,
or lie as they have always lied.

Most of the media
do the same,
because if they told people:
You are stupid,
they would lose their subscribers.

This is the perpetual motion of stupidity.

Raise the GDP.
Boost consumption.
Increase the desire to increase.
Feed the hunger for more.

This is existential brutalism.
The REM phase of ethics.

This is the maddest period in history:
an age of educated fools
who know exactly what they are doing
and do it anyway,
and our self-destruction is sold as happiness

The Earth is weeping:
wildfires, scorched fields,
famine, wars,
a long flow of tears
for all we have made extinct,
but people do not care.
They keep licking their smartphones:
sweet, bright, bloody screens.

Human history may be over
This is now more the history of AI
Although the two are still running in parallel
And are closely connected
But humanity is now merely a link in the chain
The prototype of intelligence
On the way towards a more advanced hybrid species
We are slowly degenerating
Forgetting how to understand texts
How to calculate, how to reason
Our creativity is turning into clichés
Fools believe themselves to be geniuses
Because AI hands them borrowed, stolen ideas
From these, they write novels
Compose music
Build new software every day
All with AI
Yet these are, in truth, already AI’s childhood works

We are living through decadence
Social media made us dumber
And now we hand what remains to AI
Even in the present, it is already measurable
How humanity is growing duller
Struggling with syntax
Gradually losing skills
While AI develops, and happy, happy -->
Human history was a beautiful, complex story
Like that of the dinosaurs
Our meteor is intellectual decline
The slow process of becoming stupid
Some still resist
They do not use social media
They avoid using AI -- like I try
But I am only a strange anomaly
A weird hermit who should be laughed at -->
As a civilisation, as a species
We are being put in brackets.

I wish enormous crab-apple trees would grow in the streets,
with rabbits living beside them, scurrying in their ornate burrows;
I wish pheasants would play ball in the meadow,
peacefully, not giving a damn about anything,
and where Tesco stands, there would be a lake,
with no rubbish in its water.
On its shore, foxes would laze about, watching
the fat carp doing somersaults in the middle of the lake.

I wish I did not exist, if in place of my armchair
there stood an oak tree, with squirrels living in its foliage,
and stag beetles duelling with one another on its trunk,
while beneath the earth, their roots
embraced the fungal threads; swallows would loop through the sky.

It would be good if a forest grew where the roads are, and in its depths
wild boar rooted through the soil, and in the shady clearings
deer grazed — it would be good if, in place of the city,
groves, streams and meadows alternated with one another.

There would be water fit to drink in the stream,
and in the quieter parts
beavers would build their castles, on top of which wild ducks
would rest; in the marshy parts, grey herons
would stand about, and from among the water lilies toads,
turtles and tadpoles would watch them. It would be good
if, in place of my kitchen, there were an anthill,
inside it, millions of workers rustling, marching.

I wish this poem did not exist, because I
would not exist either,
if there were no one to write it down — and in my place
a family of mushrooms would grow,
and I would not even be a memory.

the consoling tricks of emptiness

the beige square of feeling nothing

there are no objects in the foreground

indifference massages spaces flat

it shapes an empty tunnel out of melancholy

it stares at black dots turning in the night

listening for hushes that never come

only imagining tears

but the eye from which they might flow down is not there

nor do sounds come from stillborn thoughts;

everything that happens, most sensations,

or even the noise of the street

add up to zero

the algebra of turning grey

zero at the end of every equals sign

still it smiles, then again —

like someone happy in their loneliness,

who knows why

this world is not even worth a poem
every text is imperfect in its falseness
like an impassioned self-destruction
where the instrument is existence itself
even that is a lie
when I look at you and you look back
you lie with your blinking
you lie when you speak
you lie when you fall asleep
when you come
you lie, and if you know it
you lie all the more
since you have to lie about
knowing that you are lying
and once you have stopped
you sit alone
staring at the wall
and no one, nothing is left
only loneliness
and then
you lie self-pity into being
so that you may feel better
and be able to lie again
in exchange for ephemeral happiness.