We’re greedy creatures, wanting everything for ourselves.

Living in absurd hierarchies swollen with self-worship,

admiring our reflections:

“Oh, how beautiful I am!”

“And so clever, too!”

And on top of that—

a made-up god who, supposedly,

created us on purpose

to multiply himself,

because this skin-wrapped jelly body,

this endless hunger

was just too lovely not to reproduce...

My head aches from humans.

...from all of it.

I wish I could see

a few thousand years from now—

our descendants laughing

at the madness of this primitive ape civilisation

I’m stuck living in.

az emberek arca
köddel fedett fém szerkezet,
álmaikban a szükség
egyre tökéletesebb rágókkal
ki tudja mit keresnek itt?
szólongatom a fényt
a hangom fogsoraik közt visszhang
egy idő után nem érdekel
fekszek a földön,
az ablak csoda
magától virágba borult menekülés,
kijárat, bejárat, akvárium
ha fuldokolnál? talán segít,
amikor már csak nevetnél ezen a romlott
széttöredezett világon,
ahol a magányos grafikonok üdvrivalgása
összeadva szánalmas valósággá válik
mint a túl sok szín sáros árnya
melyet gyerekkorodban kevertél
hogy ördögöt fess magadnak
szúnyogok zümmögése altat végül
az ébrenlét szükségébe
hol az eszméletnek nevezett
állapotsorok milliói közt
ma is találj egyetlen okot arra
hogy ne akarj meghalni.

álom

Táncoltunk az éjjel, nevettél
Rég láttalak így, hiányzott -
Zokniban topogtál, én papucsban,
Fehér falak előtt keringve
Sötét négyzetek figyeltek,
Velem forogtál.

Előttük
A tűzpiros lábú íróasztalon,
egy laptop, a bárpulton tányérok -
Csak ezeknek maradt hely,
A szétmálló emlékek
Rozoga álomcsapdáiban.

Tudtam, hogy szeretlek
Mindennél jobban,
S amikor felébredtem,
Mégis sírni szerettem volna,
Miközben leírtam az álmot,
Megértettem:
állarc volt rajtad
Az nevetett, Te mögüle néztél,
Haragod lámpása voltál,
Hiába tettem volna bármit,
Csak hallgattál.

Álltam ott,
Kertre néző üres tekintet -
Az almafa fehér virágai
Lámpásokként világítottak,
Leginkább
Saját tükörképem zavart,
Sebek, sebekre égve
Hibák hibákkal, És
Az élet csendet akart.

Rendben

Mindennap újra álmodlak,
nem tudod, mert nincs telepátia,
bár ha lenne, sem sokat segítene,
mert a távolság ellen nincs terápia.
Figyelem a körforgást:
halál, születés, megújulás,
minden amit az élet kínálhat
csak annyi, amennyit megértünk?
A többi elsikkad, titok marad,
mint a felhőkbe fagyott harmat,
soha nem ér földet - hallgat,
nem öntöz fát, mezőt.

Minden nap precíz óramű,
csak mert így ismerjük,
megszoktuk, hogy bízunk benne,
ő maga a halálunk: az idő.
Tudjuk, hogy a változás konstans -
attól tartok: ennyi az egész,
az elmúlás szigorú története,
két végpontja közt néhány találkozás,
egy-egy mosoly, beszélgetés -
mint ujjvégeken csillogó fény,
elhalványul az élet is, s vele a remény.

Mert mindennap újra látlak,
így volt, így marad,
amíg lesz hajnal, virradat,
minden ablakban téged várlak,
de te nem tudhatod, hiszen
időben és térben máshol vagy.

Flōs mortis est illūsīō mea

Shattered, branching stories

Twist and tangle into each other

And at the end of each, I hang

A puppet filled with empty breath

And I keep staring at my watch

Still trying to measure the time

Thick, bloody rain of money falls on my arm

Cars, planes, mobile phones

Spin around me

Below is a noise of me as a children

Innocence disguised as continuity

Greed hidden in our eyes

I am each of them

We are all everyone

All destruction is our fault

We are flawed, flesh-machine

Glorifying ourselves

Admiring ourselves

Self, me, me, me—with a consciousness

That mostly just sniffs around

Searching for what it can consume

What it can own

What it can use to gain power

And when it feels pain

It pities only itself

Crafts touching stories

About itself

This ridiculous, naked harlequin

The only way out of this existence is by going

Through self-disgust

Through loud laughter

At itself.

 

Laugh at this text

I woke up. The night is still here.

The dark is still here. The stars, too.

And for now, the Moon is still in place.

This terrible human civilisation

is screaming around me—it never shuts up.

But in the second half of the night,

and at dawn, it gets quieter.

There’s less noise, less stink,

less filth, and less of that relentless consumption.

Luckily, people like to sleep.

And if they’re not drunk,

if they’re not on their way home

from some club, then at this hour—

they sleep.

The air is fresh. You can hear

the trees whispering. The robins.

This world we’ve made—

is one big disgusting marketplace.

Most people hate it. They’re terrified of it.

Everyone bows before money.

Researchers research for money.

Doctors heal for money.

Artists create for money.

Supply and demand prefer what’s easy to sell.

Creativity is only good if it can be monetised.

Everything runs on clichés,

templates, and prefab structures.

Corruption.

A world of dumb, ever-dumber barbarians

who are professionals at self-marketing.

No one cares about the truth.

Curiosity?

The passion to know the real world

It is a joke.

Unsellable product.

Universities train professional workers.

Research centres are just branches of corporations.

This is the world of money, revenue, and profit.

It produces trash, lives on trash,

shits trash, and keeps growing nonstop.

It only cares about short-term gain—

and it devours everything.

It feels entitled to everything.

Many think all this

is capitalism.

They think it’s some kind of

invisible evil.

But it’s not.

This greedy beast—

is just humans.

It’s us. All of us.

This is the world of people:

greedy, dumb, simple-minded giants,

electing dumber and dumber versions of themselves,

marching greedily toward their destruction.

They turn everything into momentary pleasure—

from art

to science

to their feelings.

Most believe in medieval superstitions again,

because they’re so stupid

they no longer understand

how their tools and objects even work.

And instead of looking in the mirror,

they believe in miracles

and gods—

As they destroy everything.

The pathetic object

I can’t be loved
There are people like that—
miserable ones
Maybe it’s just bad luck.
Who knows? I don’t.
I don’t understand.
Some broken equation of pity
and too broken ego?
People like me—
they cool off eventually.
Like dead,
collapsed average-sized stars
that didn’t have enough mass,
not enough hunger,
not enough selfishness
to draw in hypocritical,
self-interested love-bound planets
and burn out together.
People like me live alone
die alone, and in the end,
evaporate without colour,
without trace or destruction—
bland even in death.

The ridiculous artefact

Ordinary days in a row

No gaps, no rest

No pause, no restful breath

No silence is worth anything

You repeat it to yourself:

“There’s nothing beyond the weekday”

Even when you shut off

Even when you feel free—

Those few years

Maybe a couple of decades

Your money, your status, your power

And your stuff

Will end up as ridiculous archaeological finds

While anything you believed

Beyond numbers

It was probably a lie

A smeared-out landscape

A fading love letter

Your great ideas are swirling down the toilet

Your name and balance

on a bank statement

Dust in a concrete crypt

I just smile

Same old stories

Embarrassingly identical archetypes

I listen to the rain tapping

Some are planning their success

Someone’s dying

Someone else is having an orgasm

Maybe there’s only one of us

And whoever it is—

It is dreaming all of us.

 I woke to a light rain.

I accepted it and listened.

The blackbirds were silent.

I’m in Slovakia; I was born here.

Ekecs. Yesterday, Budapest.

Meanwhile, I was staring at a map of Argentina.
“Should I travel to Tokyo?”

I was bored with all of them.
Human’s culture is childish

Every country is pointless.
What is this? What word?

The atavistic or-and archaic?

Money isn’t civilised…

Religion isn’t about doing good…

But the silence... a smile—

they’re somewhat comforting

Obvious, fitting answers

To this self-satisfied,

grasping human world

And every morning, waking up in it,

I have to remind myself

That sadly, it exists—

And it’s more

than just a nightmare.

I message You Nothing

Whatever I’d write to you,
no matter how beautiful
Brief and bright—it would melt away
As if it had never existed
Not even as imagination
Just a paper sigh
The laughable crying of struck keys.

I’d instead write nothing.
Make this moment impersonal
Hours and days will grow out of it
Lonely trees, birds hiding behind clouds
Ridiculous fantasies...

It’s all too much Pain—
There always seems to be more of that
Enough to wilt any joy
What joy?
The one we fake, lie about,
Enlarge each day
To survive this world
This clown-factory we’ve made
With no exit
Injustice, inequality
Mountains of trash
Empty eyes,
staring into their phones
Spitting out microplastic
Playing tourist
Flying around like nothing’s wrong.

I’m going mad! Watch the awful feeding
This brainless, stupid giant we’ve become
Rushing
Eating
Shitting
Until one day
It slams into its own concrete wall
And finally, it goes quiet.

I won’t write you anything
Because there’s nothing to say
I’d like to be joyful
But it’s hard to be joyful
At all.

Moment When sunlight shines through the leaves

With the blue sky above—it’s just a moment.

That’s all it is—nothing more
than photons,
your eyes, and your brain

Who you are—the birds, too

Awareness, presence, and the realisation

That there’s no god behind it

You are no more than this moment.

When sunlight shines through the leaves

And turns into warmth, twisting on the skin of your hand

That smile it brings

A single image—in a world stained by people

Chance shaped into joy

The fragile and fleeting recognition

Of the temporary—something you could perceive
In the noise

Trapped among people—watching the leaves

While in the park, trash bins

Digested what humans left behind.

And the loudness, the will, the laughter…
They don’t even notice

the trees, the leaves, the birds—

all pass
with them

as a moment.

Part of It

Black pits for eyes

From here, they look like tunnels

Absurdity and boredom feel good

Shiny marble heavens

With gentle souls pinned up

Spirals of gears, slow and sad

Crooked apes

Leaping around their gods

What is this mess around me?

Filthy life lifting itself up

It’d be better if this were a nightmare

But it looks like I’m awake

Teeth on teeth, rimmed with ears

I’m afraid I’ll survive

And be part of it—

Whether I want to or not.