képek, betűk

The nightmares stay, I know they shouldn’t
and it’s better not to think of you, the images
or what we left of us, whatever it was,
recognising mistakes is mostly just excuse
we feel better if we can find a few,
because if we can’t – there’s only the dark, deep mirror
where we squirm in twisted poses,
who could tear the pain out of us?
where’s a refuge? some vast forest, meadow
where something still remains from school-taught
temperate climate? Where are the scented
summer seasons sobbing with sudden cloudburst?
I’m not complaining, I don’t even exist,
sitting in corners, I watch the change,
the parades we so often think are ugly,
the ruptured
grimy fault-lines of our short little life
measured on a historic scale
acceptance and love along its edge
the battered nape of understanding,
knowledge, numbers and graphs...
if the blood is pumped through the heart
expects the same old boring riverbed, what can it do?
it wears down, it dies,
everything’s fine like this,
we crumble to dust – "life" – fuck, what a word
simply the trick of screwing us all,
gives something, makes us wait,
then strips us of everything,
crushes us minute by minute,
impersonal, illusion, hocus-pocus—
And that was all.