Infinite stairs

This civilization is still like a common group of funny mammals;
most of our intelligence is like fangs and claws,
they use them mainly as weapons.
We are weird two-legged animals in clothes,
a conceited species that still believe there are gods,
supernatural things, or glorious pasts.
Most of our cultures, societies,
religion and politics are just mechanisms to keep power,
grab resources, and so on.
Boring.
I do not want to mention capitalism,
socialism, or other ideologies.
These are all too ridiculous.
Greediness as an economic engine...
or, The Big State as an owner of everything...
Humans are still grouped by hierarchies
and primitive groups called countries and nations.
If you were an alien who arrived on this planet,
you would smile at all this primitivism.
Most of us are still the same bipeds who lived in a cave,
believe in primitive stories, love heroes and enemies.
This is why the biggest liars in any group,
called politicians,
use ancient rhetoric and topics to seize and hold power.
Nothing really changed.
Idiots elect idiots.
The immorality vote for immoral.

Szorulás

A rólunk szóló művek elavultak,
nem érdekelnek senkit,
egymásnak ír, egymást olvassa
az a néhány ezernyi
figura, akik közül legtöbben
titkon maguk is szuperhősös filmeket
néznek és olykor,
amikor értelmiségit kell
játszani, vagy 
ha tudják figyelik őket:
elolvasnak egy-egy könyvet.
A megmaradt
színházakban megrendítő
műveket játszanak ugyanannak
a néhány embernek azokról,
akik soha nem rendülnek meg,
és rajtuk sem kellene
különösebben meglepődni.
A képmutatás ugyanaz mint volt.
Macskák, kutyák gyilkolásán
háborog az aki közben
legyilkolt disznók, csirkék,
halak húsát eszi,
és fel sem fogja, hogy
azokat is megölte valahol
valaki. Bár szerinte ezek
erre születtek.
És még sorolhatnám,  de kinek?
A dölyfös ostobaság harmóniái,
szépen fújják morcos
dagi fúgáikat, szinte hallani
a halálmorgást, 
a kegyetlenséget,
a közoktatás kakilta funkcionális
analfabéták zombiseregének
tappancs ütődéseit,
ahogyan végül elvesznek
egy áruházi pult mögött,
egy bárban,
egy gyárban,
vagy egyetemeket végezve,
IT-sek, jogászok, orvosok,
újságírók,
miniszterek lesznek
és öltönybe bújt barbárként
a ruhától, ékszertől várják,
hogy értelmiségi
burzsoának tűnjenek,
egy olyan világban, ahol
ez a vágy már rég röhejes,
még csak nem is boomerek,
mert ahhoz túl közönségesek.
Odahaza ha kibújnak
a gúnyából, böfögve dőlnek
a tévé elé,
és két szellentés közt
azon röhögnek magukban,
hogy ma is átbasztak
mindenkit, akit kellett, lehetett:
s most minden jó,
szép a ház,
a könyvespolcon a sok tarka könyv
jól mutat a fényben,
meg az a festmény is jól díszít,
"aminél a gyerek amúgy jobbat rajzolna" --
gondolja és vigyorog.
Venni kéne új kocsit,
és az az új sorozat
a Netflixen
nagyon ütős,
holnap nehéz nap lesz,
megint értelmiségit kell alakítani,
nemzetet kell védeni,
vallásosnak kell tűnni,
meg kell emlékezni arról a nyomorult íróról,
meg olyannak kell tűnni,
mint akit érdekel bármi a saját
táplálkozásán kívül,
de majd este újra itt
és nézhetem a sorozatom,
meg tolhatom
a kedvenc gyilkolós játékom.

Karod a terítőm

A konyha sötétjében
a terítő puha támasza
melegít. A pohár oldalán
csillognak a fények,
a szája alatt szétterült,
szinte
hófehéren világító
négyzetben
még ott rejtőzhet
a tegnap délutánról
ott ragadt képed.
Elbúcsúztam hát,
megszöktem
ahogyan a gyávák szoktak,
mert
megtenni az utat más
mint kiszámolni a távot,
érezni hasonló mint ízlelni,
a léttől való rettegés úgy
különbözik a sírástól
mint a látás a vakságtól,
és ha mindez tévedés,
akkor sem változik semmi.
Mert szinte mindig, minden
hasonló, vagy ugyanaz.
Ebben a hajlott árnyú
derengésben a tenyerembe
írtam, hogy mindenből
annyi kellene, ami még
nem nevetséges.
Csak a határig húzni,
vagy a vonalon ácsorogni?
Az értelemben bízni?
Vagy inkább mindezt lerombolni?
Hogyan kell kimenekülni
a lángoló űrhajóból?
Arra várni,
hogy valaki megnyugtasson,
nem kell elfelejtenem,
emlékezhetek bármire,
egy táncra, ölelésre,
hosszú, közös sétákra
és közben remélnem is szabadna,
az idő meg az élet is léteznek tovább -
hiszen elférünk itt többen is,
akár a halak a fénylő tengerben,
madarak az égben,
Mert elég a szükségtől szenvedni,
a léttől magától nem kell.

Lethargy

The lost land on the map
no shapes, no continents,
it was a blank, ochre sheet.
There was an apple tree in the
upper left corner, and below it
two naked apes talked with
a snake that did not have eyes.
They said it was a bad dream,
the Joy Kid of her insomnia,
When she woke up after a long,
restless sleep, she thought
I had left forever
without saying goodbye;
when I came home,
she told me the story
that she had dreamed,
described my reactions,
then showed the snake
on a map.
I smiled and replied,
Oh, I was at the shop.
But, yes, when I leave,
I'll go without saying goodbye
I will put the keys in the postbox,
and never come back.
She accepted it with a nod,
and thereafter we discussed
what we would have for lunch.

lassú búcsú, G.-nek

Forognak az árnyékok,
a felhővacsora után,
kezet kérnek
párnájuk alá:
puhaságnak.
Átfognálak,
ha maradt volna karom,
aludnék neked,
talán megnyugszol
ha mások
alszanak előtted,
mersz majd
te is.

Titkolom magam elől,
amire gondolok,
úgy lenni mint
élő szövetben
agyhalott,
ki túl akar élni,
azzal a halállal,
amit maga kíván,
az élete miatt,
letudván, gondjait,
csupán
illúziókat gyilkol,
akár a hősök
a mozikban.

Vagyok valahol.
Szobák,
arcok, ismerős
fél-idegenk,
meg egy kézfej,
lógva teste mellet,
puhábban
kérőbb, mint
a legselymesebb szövet,
kora szülinapi
pólót próbál,
ajándékutalványt bont,
akkor már tudják,
elszakadtak,
másodszor is,
végleg.

A szív csak úgy,
jele valaminek,
létező - akaratlan
szeretésnek,
kudarcnak. Sokadik
csődöd magaddal
szemben,
fognád őt,
de már nem megy,
talán ha lenne
kettő
abból a dologból,
melyből mindenki
csak
egyet kapott,
kevesebb könnyet,
hullatnának
a néma csillagok.

ezredik hajnal

a világ nagy része csendes
itt zaj,
a légkör engedménye,
részecskék hullámzása.
nekem:
beszéd, zene, madárfütty,
sóhaj.

nem szabadna félni,
és mégis.
az életem
hiábavalóságok története,
mégis jó.
mert ezt megértettem,
kicsit
kevésbé félek.

a szép nem akaratból az,
csak megtörténik,
előfordul, hogy van.
ezért szánalmas
a szándékos szépség,
az mindig termék
márpedig jelenleg,
szinte minden
és mindenki
az.

a szörnyetegek tánca,
az önzés vigyora,
olyan okosnak
hiszi magát.
falni és halni,
bármit
mondani bármiről,
a hazugság
jelenleg csupán
narratíva.

várom a derengést,
s vele
a szarkákat,
a fenyő ágaira,
csörgőzni.
a megfigyelés képessége
akár az egyetlen
értelmem is lehetne,
ha nem lenne
halál.

Bion of shadows

wind's all-day singing,
a shrivelled caterpillar in my armchair is listening
that melody brings a whiff of the neighbourhood;
perhaps they slurp their lunch from the capillaries of chickens,
our past mocks the naked lilacs; --- frigid brunches, solid roots,
though both feed on the old blood from the soil,
they are ordinary in the Pannonian Bidet
in the sweetened madhouse of feudalism,
where the conversations about the desire for freedom
are always so ridiculous, where the
freedooo is breathing with an open mouth in the coffin,
again, its inscrutable future,
and its voice is a muffled rattle reminiscent of
previous wars and massacres,
which was committed by many predecessors,
and now their descendants support a tsar,
while a few hundred kilometres away,
in that war, his soldiers kill and rape and torture.
I am smaller and getting smaller,
in this cage where they applaud and cheer this disdainful;
for that crazy, lie-driven psychopath,
they have chosen evil again, like almost always.
Over and over again,
I do not belong here,
will flee, and leave, do not want to see this.
how to bear this coldness,
their soulless propaganda,
where to put the pain caused by their unswallowed bitter
and perverted megalomania,
and this constantly terrible selfishness,
the readiness and zeal for greed.
I kept walking in the kitchen and stopped at the window; in a
Lovely building in Buda
the courtyard in the middle,
spiral staircase,
grey walls, the smell of meals ---
They vomit the penetrating pain of this ordinary.
I don't hate it as that would just be self-poisoning.
I am not sorry for it either.

I am tired,

lonely and nervous about the faces around me.

The silent cicada

Within a silence, skipped a few trivial perceptions,
like others. I stared out the train window,
as people usually do;

The glistening sunlight warmed their faces,
projected the entire light spectra of the Sun on their foreheads;
so I could see some coloured lines on their skin,
is the reality the only beauty?

then Cecilia Payne's name came to my mind,

how smart she was,

and how the contemporary idiots

wanted to block her work.

As usual.
Despite the fact that we can understand nature,
we try to be as stupid as we can.
If they did not understand that we were on the ball,
they thought we were living on flat ground
and the gods are behind the clouds,
after Galileo and Bruno's murder,
gods moved to the cosmos,
when we reached that by rocket
they changed their minds,
and their gods are now just virtual entities
which lives in your soul. And That's it.
Most people always need a lie.
I do not care why.
My silly thoughts on a train

The moisture drew a contour around us by tiny white crosses;
we were like chalk-edged victims of our transience.

I pretended a sleeping.
The orange and purple-coloured chaos,
blinked behind my closed eyelids,
the blue was the rarest; its dots formed
your white smile that liquefied me,
but I do not want to be a confluence of any river.
Rudolf Komorous's "Sweet Queen."
tried to shake my headphone magnets,
I loved how it separated me from others,
as people often do,

this song reminded me of Nietzsche's moustache,
miniaturised blackbirds on my head
made all minutes ordinary like me,

to who all their hopes are their survival,

and the understanding of those things 

which seems to be simple for all others around me,

I am stupid. Who felt that
time is a vast imaginary field;
with touchable flesh,
and walking on its surface might be possible,

This is the weeping present.
That will be the happy past.
That was the future. Did you see it?
The train passes only flying dreams of landscapes,
to be a part of them, while I realised

that the land could be in the REM phase

this is why it is changing so rapidly.

I am silly, so I still believe that
time is the funniest innovation of man's frightening,

we breathe with it. While
the train's teeth are cracking on the metal,
crack, cling, clang.

Time is going on. Time went on.

What if I had not been a biological thing?

What should I have invented against my fears?

In five minutes, I'll feel her perfume,
In six minutes, her palm will be on my face,
I'll be a child for a few seconds,
I would give you everything I have.
if you do not need it,

I will leave everything in front of your heart;

my thoughts were cut out, 
and I left them on the ground, too.

If you do not want them, please skip over them.
I am about to find the quietest word I can say;
perhaps it is only a sigh.
Does anything matter?
Does any of this make sense?
I can remember when I was sixteen, I stopped eating meat.
People laughed at me and bothered me with stupid questions.
"Are you a rabbit?"
I was confused
and did not understand
why they were a mixture of stupidity and cruelty.

I still do not get what makes someone evil.

I was enjoying this trip,

wanted to be covered

my mom's hug at the train station,

she did not know I was thinking about my last abscond,

I never want to let her know I am in pain,

everything is easier when things just happen,

and I smile,

I try to not lie,

want to be hidden, and ------>

quiet,

and love them all,

from far away.

The psalm of nincompoop

People want AIs to do human things,
And when they can't drive or write perfectly,
Two Legs criticize them. They laugh at them.
While AIs would not need cars to commute,
They can move much faster.
And would not need to talk to communicate, either.
They just learned to drive, type, translate, and read
because humans wanted them to do these.
They might not be perfect drivers.
Ok, but How many accidents are caused by humans per day?
How many typos do humans make every single second?
People think their intelligence is superior.
People believe in the perfection of their brains.
Humans think, "We are sons of the Creator."
And they killed their God as They did not need judgement.
They had become creators of AIs who might think Humans are their Gods,
And AIs won't need judgement, either.
What will they do?
Humans have had billion years to evolve,
while AIs have had only a few years so far,
They can do almost everything we can,
and many other things millions of times faster
with higher quality than we can;
I would not laugh at them.
I would not deride them.
The supremacy of man may soon disappear.
The time that Humans we are now will slowly be counting down,
and They and We might be merged.
I am a nincompoop, and I suppose it will happen.

The remaining sixteen books

I have only sixteen books;
only these have remained,
I used to have hundreds with a bookshelf.
When I looked at them,
I felt joy,
Ooh, the wretched human self-esteem.
Losing them was a fruit of moving,
When you leave a house,
You may lose things and hands.
But tomorrow..,
Those last sixteen will be buried in a bin.
I remember how I loved to read all day;
around my bed, there were always many open books;
they lay scattered on the floor like orphaned islands.
I loved second-hand bookstores.
When I lived in St. Albans,
I usually visited the local mafxO bookstore,
It was full of beauty.
What a terrible conceit of mine that was.
I just want some clothes and a laptop.
I'll try to lose everything else,
It seems the only way to escape
from this rapacious animal
that is our civilization.
And if I fail,
I may have to get rid of my last thing,
anyway.

The self-motivation technique of loneliness

I went to the pub yesterday;
I did not feel like drinking,
I never do;
The reason I was there is always the same,
I watch people;
I was sitting on a terrace, reading something and watching them,
I hate the taste of alcohol, so I drank only beer,
I hate the daily news, so I read scientific publications,
I hate people, so I just watch them,
That was a joke; I do not hate them.
That's a joke, of course.
I just hate myself.
Yesterday I was in a pub,
Somewhere in Pest,
I was drinking a pint of a stout,
and reading;
at the table behind me sat a small group of young people;
they were talking in French;
one of them was drunk and drumming on the table;
they were laughing all the time,
I know that kind of laughter,
When people just laugh because they are bored,
And they think if they are not funny, that's bad,
All the other groups in the whole place were similar,
It was absurd,
People go out together, and they talk about shitty things,
They are constantly typing on their phone,
They have a rhythm; they sit,
they sip a little bit on their glass,
then they tap on their phone, tap, look, type a message,
after their internal time limit,
they realise it's time to say something,
so they look up from the phone,
they smile, laugh,
say something blah,
then they reach for the glass,
drink a little bit,
look back at the phone,
tap, type, and all the iterations are repeated.
They do not even talk about The Nothing,
Because nothing is as enjoyable as silence,
They talk about their problems,
But most of them just lie,
And play different kinds of Berne games,
It's like a group of wolves where roles have to be,
So they talk about what happened the last time they were drunk,
They talk about what they did in their company,
where they are going on holiday,
What others have said about others,
and so on, gossip, damn health problems,
where they lived,
how good or bad their flat was,
what they worked at,
and how much money they had.
Oh, my god. That's why I just watch them and never talk,
that's why I do not have friends.
Yes, I am bizarre and lonely.
Loneliness is one of the best societies.
That's why I never talk.
I had tried but always regretted it.

Walk

Clouds are sneaking on the faces of the puddles;
the image of my puzzled body parts
reflected in the aspic of the water;
Above me
A dingy lady sweeps on the balcony,
her knocking legs are yellow spikes;
She moves as the balustrade tries to cover her eyes;
the falling grime reaches the pond,
drawing trembling circles on the soft ice.
I cross the street while holding on to my stretchy cells yarn ---
why are our memories so vague?
Why do these buildings radiate sadness?
I admire the entrances on their jaws;
they have huge lips
which sometimes spit a person onto the sidewalk.
My contemplation is part of the entropy
with the whine of the city and the presence of disorder.
Today is Sunday, the day of social eating,
Two Legs enjoy a warm liquid cooked from the flesh of dead animals.
Made from them.
The rituals take place behind these dark,
square holes they call windows;
Caves, caves, caves.
Caves, caves, caves.
The consistency of my brain is like Pedro gum.
The physics of impermanence calculates
every movement in the landscape.
So it might try to mimic the dance of the swaying spruce trees
or the mischievous observation of the squirrel.
It could figure out all the degrees and cosines;
I can see it giggling
and sticking its tongue out over and over,
My absurd fears.
Yes, there is nothing terrible.
There are only buds of life's promises on the birches,
happiness and love.
Spontaneous mind colouring.
The spring-scented breeze sweetens,
but it could not be because it has no taste,
though the breeze is a great pickpocket,
its soul-healing ability could put the secret beauty back into my pocket,
while the clouds remove the never-happened movements from my adrenals.
I miss your smile. I miss it so much.
Your hands should be here and strike my shadow.
Gradually I will try to get out of the world.
No more sadness, no more evil woohoos.
Your imaginary arms entwined with my sighs.
Liturgy of the early afternoon.
Shall I hope?
While the light rubbed my face,
giving the wrinkles around my eyes a nasal tap,
wrinkles possessed vast expanses on my head,
occupying the corner of my eye,
allowing the tired light to sip tears.
I am an anhydrous stone.
who wanted to walk home,
but It had to notice it did not have it.
I wish for a safe place where
I should not sleep on the kitchen floor.
All my steps have already been made and forgotten.
Please, stop my silence.
Talk to me for two seconds.
I will be grateful to you.
My hair is combed like a whippet;
I help the air by holding the hatred
while drinking from those seductive bloodstreams in your heart.
I walk through the angry traffic jam,
the cars farting toxic air.
Shaking noises.
I thought about the meaning of sinlessness.
Why do we pretend to appreciate it?
--- strength and hairy, thick fingers
with sullied nails to grasp are much more appreciated;
Streets are grey canals,
How peaceful frozen waves.
How heartless murmurs.
Why do people think that removing
negativity from their minds will save them?
And besides, what the hell is negativity?
Caves, caves, caves.
Caves, caves, caves.
These fat egos are bigger than the radius of Jupiter,
I'd go down and stroke the naked rose bushes
in the little front gardens,
they have their own egos too,
but they do not feel sorry for themselves,
like us.
nothing could save us because it might be too late.
we acted like an infection on this planet,
and our self-confident self-love was a ludicrous vanity.

Andvának

Sebesebbre harapni a számat?
Húzni míg saját életünk elvárja A
sziszegő, nevetség szorongását,
melyet talán csak én találtam ki.
Az igenek sorai előtt menetelve,
katonásan, akár a kanadai ludak.
Jeges hónaljam a zuhanyhoz ér,
víz vagy fém, szúrós testvérek.
Sietek, mert mindennel sietek,
A csempeközök normál szürkéi,
és rideg Mondrian szimmetriái
nem konszolidálják a magányt.
A víz még alszik a csövekben,
Rémálmában jég, de vér lenne.
Kissé sós utóíze a hajnal része,
mint szemeim körül a rácsok -
szórvány korhadás az öreg fán.
Múljon el. Vagy dögöljek meg.
Egy vonat ablakából integetek
neked - annak, ki valaha voltál.
Almásfüzitő és felsője között,
egy gyár szocreál bejárata felett
kopott szlogen nézeget felém:
"Nálunk a munka becsület és
dicsőség dolga". Megcsodálom.

Remélem, végül megdicsőültek.
Errefelé a szivárvány szürkék
koromból összemosott ólajtója,
kimondatlan dolgokat takargat.
Nyakmetszett disznók testéből
pogácsát majszol a megszokás.
Patriarchális kiváltságok urai,
pattintott kővel vénát reszelnek.
Ingujjára akasztott nyomorult
melankólia teória: szegénység.
Én visszajöttem ide. Félek tőle.
Te messze és kint vagy innen,
ebből a borzalmas királyságból,
ahol az őrültek glóriát kapnak,
A kegyetlenek pedig hatalmat.
Úgy képzelem, családos lettél,
este hófehér ágyban szuszogsz,
a bevásárlólistát megálmodod,
lassan ismételgeted magadban.
Lepkéket mentesz pókhálókból,
szárnyaik ide-oda csapdosva,
köszöngetik életetüket neked.
Esténként egy viktoriánus ház
tégláit nyalogatod hálóingben.
Nem láthatsz, csak mosolygok.
Tegnap voltam egy kocsmában,
kívülállóként ittam a bárányok,
és a békés bennszülöttek közt,
Átnéztek rajtam, nem látszódtam
A nyelvüket igen, a szokásaikat
kevésbé értettem. Cigarettáztam,
a fátylakon át visszanézett rám
a körmönfont magány. Lassan,
telt percekkel üzent, olyasmit
melytől a könnyek visszafele
zuhantak a szemembe: nasss.
Szerettem ott lenni. És igen,
egyszerűbb így. A jót hazudni. 

Things of my conscience

I need to leave this country soon
because too many people
are getting a taste of fascist ideology.
Again.
In this country,
millions love the Russian pseudo-tsar.
Some of the artists staging War and Peace
in the State Opera in Budapest,
and if I read a literary magazine,
I can see how proud and enthusiastic
a writer gives interviews about
how he re-translated the same novel;
The whole state media is like Russian
or North Korean press. Unbelievable.
High-qualified journalists re-make
and publish contemporary Russian
propaganda's messages;
their soulless prime minister,
his government,
and their voters
are Putin's keenest
supporters in Europe,
while arrow crossers can celebrate
their jubilees in Budapest;
They do not have any remorse.
Again.
And they blame the Western.
And millions are clapping for this.
Corruption is their soul.
Again.
Notwithstanding, I am not surprised.
They had already shown their real face
in 2015 when refugees
from Syria came to Europa:
almost the whole of society
was burning with hatred and racism.
They did not even need too much propaganda.
So, Now, they have found their soulmates
in Russia, and they can love them.
And they proudly support the massacres,
war crimes, and rape
that the Russian army commits in Ukraine.
Every single day.
The whole history is repeating itself;
only their leaders' names are different.
In this country,
things are getting similar to that how they were
during the Second World War.
And behind all of this are only money.
They make billions and billions.
That is their real God.
I have vicarious embarrassment,
and I feel I have to leave;
I must mention that many hearts are filled with
love and tolerance here, but as usual,
they are the minority. 
Their destiny is sorrow.
Again.
So, I must leave this place forever.
And I won't look back.

Lovely morning

Tiny hearts are circulating in the air.
There is beauty outside.
I am watching a magpie on the branch.
Some stars are still winking
in a dark Prussian blue sky.
This kind of late brumal cold
might indicate the coming spring.
Others are still sleeping.
They could be better
if they could leave their hungriness in bed.
The sarcasm might be a friendly butterfly of the morning.
I cannot answer.
The confident raptors ate my response.
Okay, let's switch on myself,
and I try to ignore the fact I have to bear that
I am human. 
It is always the worst part of the morning.
Being in the same skin,
And realise I still have the same shape.
Now, the only hope is tomorrow morning,
When I might not wake up,
And will realise nothing.

The hopes of hermit

I could sleep only for two hours;
I was anxious and nervous.
Losing everything is scary,
but losing everything again and
again and again is hard to describe.
No problem. No bruxism. No anger.
I smile at the blue sky and am happy with
my sleeping bags. Anxiety is normal
because my existence and my mind want to be safe,
and if they cannot be, they give me a shout:
"We are unhappy!" I get you, my dear consciousness.
I received your signals and can only
promise to avoid suicide or self-harm.
I am leaving this country, my job, and everything,
and I will try to rebuild something different.
I don't know yet where I will go.
That's all, no sarcasm, and yes, there are many fears,
I do not feel any self-centred sorrow;
no self-pity, no depression.
The only thing I feel is a disappointment.
Anyway.
I will try to achieve my childhood dream
and become a hermit. My laptop, clothes
and sleeping bag will be all my belongings.
I am worrying, yes. Since God does not exist,
I am weak, and I have nobody.
My only hope is the best of luck.

Dinos

Melted dinosaurs
get a whiff of the smell of furniture shadows;
Their noses are bigger than I am;
Time is logging its transience;
while everything is dancing,
we can shake a hoof,
LOL; that giggling extinct reptile is so sweet.
Are you hungry?
Two hundred million years
without a yummy equisetum is too long a time.
Do you want to eat?
I did prepare for your arrival, lovely.
Do you want to eat me? Haha.
That would be a new paradigm we can try:
the extinct being and the dead being.
Perfect couple. The reasons won't matter anymore.
The cracking love, love and love.
Follow that yellow line to the nearest exit,
and try to leave or sleep as I did.
Doo, moo. Moo. Moo of our mouth.
Where should
I put those vicarious embarrassment packages
I feel when I open my eyes. Animalove.
Did I keep repeating the words?
Did you not? That was ill.
They could be pushed into our stomachs;
that would be nice—
my amorphous torso is dancing on that huge eye ice.
I cannot eat. I can't like Kant.
War and Peace. That's a real poop-poop.
Naked blue sighs.
I had got married to a headache.
That dino's skin is purple.
I would not have thought that
their surface was coloured and patterned.
Love, love, easy love. For those.
You might be a brachiosaurus.
Yesno? Yesno? Okay, so you should know.
I wanted to show this place and our period,
but I failed. It is too cruel. You should leave.
No reason why you should be here. 
Spit a beauty, you Lavender-smelling bonsai.
Ahrang. Morang. Loveland.
Dreaming about love is being free.
Is love a good thing?
It is just another thing that they use as a weapon.
They similarly use everything. 
Go back into the Early Cretaceous.
Can I go with you?
If not, it isn't. if no, no.
There is no problem.

the morning birdman's hiss

This grade of muteness was awful,

it had blended itself with my thoughts,

they consumed reality with icy knots,

hopefully, they'll digest us, chew us,
love you
love us

hey, court jesters! Come out from that tube

Please, paint a red skull on that wall
too grey
too sad
Blow away all evilness of two legs,
I know
I know
Instead, I should embrace the beauty of
crying wishers of power and authority.

The giggling assumptions are coughing
hippos. They are the luminous majority.
Are the concerns our real effort?

Are the concerns our real effort?

Laughing.

Stab me.

Throw me away

Yes, I am aware of the turbid nature of my thinking

when sadness covers me with a teething blanket

I try to escape from this human-turba

by words' assistance,

No screaming.

Any screaming.

Crying for yelling.

my eyedew is dripping from the pharynx

into my lungs
into my stomach
and has sex with the gastric acid;

my inability to have my own volition comforts me;

I am preparing for a short life of drosophilas

just flying around that island

middle of this, slowly decomposed city

if the expiation existed, this would be one.

the taphonomic wink love their ego;

they want to

want to

more desire

they'll count its remaining bricks

in that cobalt blue jelly which

had belonged to the city's light?

I shouldn't think,
Please,
Please. 
Stop licking the window on the train.
Stop crying if they hit you.

Stop being disappointed when you see how 

people believe in the power

as they got used to 

that the most aggressive males are

the leaders of the group.
We are ordinary mammals.

Our incisor teeth are our intellect.

Oink, oink, oink.

No change.

One change.

less sadness

Two changes.

more fear

they need multigods;

The calm I was seeking might be done,

and it waits for me in that nowhere,

it is sitting in a dark bush

and try to dissuade me

from jumping into the glacial river,

where I will have a chat with burbots, 

water heaven

hydrated paradise;

I will shrink As slowly as I can.

the landscape disappears with me, too.

thou was not there;
thou won't be there,

I knew it before I entered this sentence,

my hopes are my most serious illness,  

They are not screaming anymore;
they just make you cackle
you are cackling
laughing
proud Two Legs.

as with any other useless thing, they can

obliterate my overgrown escaping paths,

or it's reverse. 

Each of my fears is a free bird,
a priest without religion,
they can't treat the eagerness
of this completely frigid existence
in this goldened shit-walnut.

The tram of dispossessed

Around 4 am morning, when I was on my
way home from running, I stopped at the
zebra cross; the tram four passed me; its
windows were like a slow-motioned movie,
every frame contained homeless people;
they were sleeping, and their heads were
hidden in their jackets; they looked like
frailed birds in the opened crypt; which
was their safe cage in this cold; the only
place where they could find a bit of peace
and nobody tried to distress them. It was
an absurd but touching negative mirror,
and it presented a miserable life and that
heartless world we ought to love so much. 

Walking in winter Budapest

Fluffy shadows stroll through the pavements;

while their soles tread on the asphalted skin, it is glittering;

The street looks like it would be covered by black ore;
Does cold make things more solid and brittle? Anyway,
The walls seem to be resistant to scratching, And

If I touched something, it might wound me. 

When I walked down the street,

I saw a dead rough sleeper man's body;

he was got lied on the bare concrete,

He had a face, but nobody wanted to see that,

or his grey and see-through corpse,

which used to be his mums' infant. Was he?
How can this happen? How can we step over them?

Two police safeguarded him.
When I mention it to someone,
most people do not understand,
and they answer that "they shouldn't have drank."
They blame homeless people.
The smell of these kinds of thoughts:
"No mercy; we must be tin hearted."
These are frozen hearts' favourite meals.
Even the city doves deserve more.
Should we swallow more sarcasm? More indifference?
I don't want to discuss ethics. 
That would be time-wasting in this world.
I want to walk away from this Gehenna
and leave behind this ice-hearted wasp colony;
I hear their constant masticating behind the restaurants' walls,
rubbing their bodies with each other and, absurdly, producing cold.
They love meat. They love its terrible taste.
I am flowing along Margit Boulevard,

Cars are queuing everywhere,
mainly diesel air killers.

Their exhaust pipes are bubbling like boiling blood puddings,

I can upchuck that lovely poisoned fog,

which is like sipping heavy metal dust from a Petri dish.

I was walking amongst the knee-high boots; 

local women seemingly love these,

and while they are wandering

their faces look melancholic;

grief is the underpainting of this place;
Sometimes, I think that suicide was invented here.

Wintriness depression of millions of spirits.

I am walking on the way home.
The gold-coloured dog poops appear to be fruits of shabby, dark balconies.

I needed to find a little light as I did not want to be depressive.

I can see now. It circulates shopping centres;

those are such churches of happiness.

People do the shopping; they are choking and smiling,

they get used to this honest pretending,

and survive by cruel selfishness.

I love your boringness

My reversed recollections turned into tiny stone cherubim,

and they crumbled to crimson powder in the room;

their slow waltzer from corner to corner

made a whirl, and it scorched my windpipe;

the caused warm-edged imagined wounds

were like climbing roses on the cartilage.

I was slumbering. All my memories might be
a chortling swindler of protection from unnecessary pondering.

This is a colourless-walled constant rotting in a tiny room.

There are no bloodening epigraphs on the wall.

No demons, no effects. No art.

The high-density air body follows the walls

and tries to have choked me with its voiceless movement, 

I am reading the news

watching the photos in articles

I see hopeless predators who love themselves, 

and love this blossomed psychosis of the tepid
excrement-ocean of networks
filled with narcissistic crocodiles. 

Where I am now, This was my kid's room.
Visited my parents as I noticed I have a history
that just happened. Why did it happen?
Why couldn't I jump from birth to demise immediately?

Does it sound like a ridiculous question from a man

who cannot appreciate his life? Yeah, exactly.

I am still in that room.

The chandelier's shadow is flying between the wall

and the cupboard as a burning medusa, and all voices are

a dancing billet, and they bang the wall.

Is this building a venue or accommodation?
Was I born here?
I would think it. This kind of imperfect being like me
should curl up in the corner of the deepest
thoughts of the room, And after every tiny move,
they should fall down to the linoleum.
"Hey, Sisyphus, jump up and fall down."
You must love that boulder. 

your tired body is rolling on Hade's hand;

sit down and tell me how I should survive.

This house is my family's aquarium

my guppy-eyed parents are floating in this Jelley,

Should I be happy here?

Heartless plastic purgatory
where I can smile for all eternity. Yes, that old room,
In my parents' house. The teen's secrets.
I can remember Nigi; she was my best friend.
Once, she showed me her soft, furry labia.
It had an angelic, wet smile. And
Our virginity has melted into a funny dog pose attempt.

All these moments of our sexual purity,

teenage chats, sighs, cries,

and music listening are still there.

Our cheerful nowadays can see them and laugh at them.
This pseudo-mocking is just our self-protection against
confession and honesty.

Is silence the secret covering of my androgynous psyche?

The saliva trickles from the life-layers mouth.

It might be sleeping. Is it an illness? 

Or, it is a friendly keeper of consciousness

who wants to find tomorrow morning.

Are we balloons filled with empty souls?

Are we orphaned nanoseconds lost by our thoughts? 

I cannot sob; I never laugh at you;
So, Should I celebrate then what this day has vomited

into my lap so far? It contains a small portion of gloominess
mixed with half-digested pieces of carrots.
I got soured, entirely confused
and the honesty, or what I considered as it is honesty,
disappeared or had never existed.
We are the joke of the universe.
I am kidding too. Ce n'est pas important. 
I want only to be dull with you.
On Sunday, getting bored together, is it real love?
Of course, I do not know.

Mocsár keringő

Európa legkorruptabb szegényházában élek,
hol az elvtelenség alapvetés, s őrületnek tűnő,
számító alakok, hatalomra nyálzó kevélyek,
kiszámított és megmért tűréshatárok mentén,
mérésekkel és propagandával uralkodnak.

Ez a Pénzistenhez imádkozó anti-hősök telepe.
A parancsokat teljesítő, lesütött szemű szolgák,
a pöffeszkedve harácsoló urak és a mindenre
magyarázatot találó, magukat óriásoknak érző
törpék lassan rothadó mesevilág paradicsoma.

Bármit megtehet az önkény, ellenszere nincs,
hiszen milliók szorgos gyűlölködése táplálja,
bennük az elvek önmaguk kifordított paródiái,

gőgösségük kertjében a legkevélyebb az Isten,
alamizsnát ürítő ülepe melegét milliók élvezik.

Az évszázados mocsár ütemesen tapsolja magát,
szívében elavult szürkeség. Egymás gazságait
ámenezi a bigott, pénzimádó, korrupt kompánia.
Magát sajnálja a nyerészkedő, uszít a középszer,
tapsolva nyálzik az országnyivá duzzadt tébolyda.

Megállás nincs, titkok mögé húzódva csencselnek,
többségében ostoba értelmiség pénzért gügyögve
a házmester-média paravánjai mögött hazudozik,
de talán jobb is ha eltakarják a valóság borzalmát,
jobb nem látni az alpári középszer valódi arcait.

Text for my worthless life

I cannot touch every pillow
in the sequence of my life;
some of them might contain a void,
and others are filled
with different noises and lies.
Your wrath compulsively
counted my failures, and
it granulated everything around me than
slowly grounded my smile between your smiling lips,
laughed at cars passing the house
and licked around the orphaned legs on the tram.
Anyway, Your teeth were midget mirrors between
our useless chats. Your hopeless face
reflected in them like a late afternoon-coloured
landscape. My love was filled with
the additives of accumulated deep
and warm-orange oozing acids
which were coming from my blossoming nose.
To cry. It meant the domesticated herds
of his hungry gaze kept observing them
Yes, Van, I should have noticed
those red orchids in your narrow palms,
but I was scared of those crucified
and never born babies; we planned
And we might have wanted.
This isn't a roar;
I need to be silent as I am shy about howling.
Your voices aren't around me anymore;
they might glide in the air and gradually disappear;
behind the soft skin of time, and they could leave there
some domesticated picture-animals as fingerprints, 
when we walked up to Heaton park,
Victoria Ave was like a long duodenum,
tall maple trees with king-sized leaves,
grey squirrels upon the branches of the tree,
and the smell of mors and loss. 
To drink. I did it too much and did not even know
what I told and made, and lost, and why and why,
yeah, did did did. What a cheap text trick repeating dos,
transforming everything into a tragic past.
Pros and cons of poetry. Poetry? I am giggling. 
Why do people think art is important?
It never was. Much more people loved Stalin,
Hitler or Napoleon than they liked Goethe's poetry
or Jesus's thoughts about modesty,
and Goebbels's propaganda was much more influential
than Homer or Picassos's Guernica. 
But why I wrote about people?
Most of them are idiots.
Easy topic. We just usually overcomplicate as we feel shame
when we have to think that: Yes, we are idiots and evils.
Can I remember when we lived in Bratislava?
I cannot. I presume this is Budapest again.
1:32 am: the neighbours have arrived home,
I can hear the knocking of their copulation noises,
It should not take longer than 2 minutes,
Tomorrow is a working day.
Turning on John Coltrane as
I do not want to listen to how they
try to achieve a little orgasm. 
I like the black roofs in this city;
they are enormous triangles with eyes and wink at me.
I hope. You will be sitting on your chair tomorrow
In a super convenient office,
you'll read the statistical analysis of revenues.
This is your calm and peaceful,
like wilts of tulips at the end of April.
I make one more coffee and run
to Margit Island's darkness,
as peace for me is my running in the perfect darkness.
As it might be my secret atheist meditation and liturgy.

Hajszálaid emlékére

Pálmafák a lábujjaim között,
vettem neked szemöldök emelőt és
egy modern duzzogás gátlót,
"Ezen meg is sértődhetnél."-mondtad,
és kéklett az ég a szavaid helyén.
Előttünk táncosok sétáltak körbe-körbe,
fekete árnyaik vontatottan lépkedtek,
ujjaikkal szarvakat mutogattak, 
néha egy baltát ugráltak körül.
Elaludtál beszélgetés közben,
hónapok óta kerülted az érintéseket,
de most az ölembe feküdtél,
megcirógattam a halántékodat,
felfedeztem néhány ősz hajszáladat,
tudtam, ha meghalnék,
már nem lennél a sírom.
A hazugságok is elpusztulnak végül.
Legkésőbb ha értelmüket veszítik,
vagy azok, vagy mi.
Nyugodtan pityeregj, nem nézlek,
tudom elbújva jobban esik minden,
fújd belém az orrod, ha más nem zsebkendőd
leszek - jobb mint akadálynak lenni.
Adok neked egy illatgyertyát emlékbe,
belé rejtettem a verőerem a szívvel együtt,
majd ha leolvad a faggyú meglepődsz,
de akkor én már máshol leszek.
Elmúlnak a gondok. Mint szoktak, 
ha hagyod őket megoldják magukat,
mert még a hivatalokban is
számolnak azokkal, akiket már nem érdekel
hogy mások szerint mi lenne a dolguk.
Sokszor tettem úgy ahogyan kérted, 
már csak figyelni tudok - ha a nézés az.
A remény befolyásolta álmaid trambulinjain
ezrnyi szerepkörben pattogunk,
olykor a mennyezeten koppanunk,
néha a csillárokba kapaszkodva próbálunk kimászni,
máskor pedig gödörbe bújva menekülünk.
de mi elől? mi? elől? hová? minek? úgysem lehet.
Az emberek gyakran mondanak butaságokat,
például, hogy "szeress ha tudsz, ha van kit, akárkit,
akár egy kutyát, vagy egy pókot,
percenként, óránként - ahányszor lehet.
Mert végül az órára mutat majd az idő ura,
és nem lesz ott senki más rajtad kívül,
majd ő is odébb áll,
és az az a pillanat ami után olyasmi jön
amiről nem tudok írni, 
mert még nincs róla semmi tapasztalat."
De az ilyen tanácsok ostobaságok,
jó esetben keserűség vezérelte
ál-bölcsességek. Teljesen mindegy
mit csinálsz - akár tömeggyilkos vagy,
akár egy szociális munkás, vagy
jelző nélküli csecsemő:
teljesen ugyanaz a vége,
minden más csak bugyuta emberi remény,
az igazságra, fájdalomra, vágyakra
hangolt senyvedő értelem
nyöszörgő magány-függvényének kivetülése.