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.