képek, betűk

In forty degrees before leaning walls
on the yellow IKEA chair’s leather I float,
the lamplight slobbers over ghostly faces,
It has already digested everything it has reached,
so now it will vomit dark streaks,
the mosquitoes on the wall are the audience,
if I could move, I’d crumple –
the whole thing into a knot, the room,
the street, its juice seeping through my fingers
like overripe, rotting fruit,
its flesh tunnelled by human teeth,
I’d crawl there too, inside,
grinding myself to pulp, you’d come to mind,
You’d feed me full, the last personal suffix,
with that cloudless, rare laughter
one of the eleven honest moments
in a person’s life,
Finally, the walls will softly fall on us,
and we just keep lying,
calling this our existence.