képek, betűk

I can barely breathe, the blinds on the window
gapes, mouthing instead of me. The solitude
is refreshing, beautiful,
beautiful, paradigms shattered into splinters
are lying on the carpet, beautiful, beautiful
the isolation, the ruined life,
the fucked-up relationships, drops, drips,
screaming raindrops, like Morton’s piano,
knock, knock, lying on my stomach, I listen to my heartbeat,
then lying on my side. Which city is this?
The sound of the cars is the same, the neighbours’
through-the-wall, routine groaning-sex sounds similar.
I have no idea, maybe the dirty Manchester?
Or the puffed-up, scabby London? Or perhaps
the stinking Budapest? Hard to know.
It makes absolutely no difference – you might say:
I have shut myself out from every feeling
that could be felt toward the outside world;
it might just as well be a concrete box,
or a sunlit meadow – everything is equally uninteresting,
part of this Bad Creation that was made of the same material.
I think a lot, I think a lot,
blah. The groundlessness of pointlessness,
the razor-sharp rows of teeth of injustices,
the stinking breathing of lies,
and the endless sorrow: like the basic colours,
I mixed them, and everything turned dark,
I count the heartbeats, but I lose count
at one hundred and fourteen, confused, I start again,
I don’t even fall asleep into this,
a few minutes of nightmare,
In which I could not even recognise myself. Hey! Hey!
How beautiful the spider is by the sill,
I’d kiss it, but it quickly goes away. Hey!
What a lovely sound the wind has outside!
I ask it, but it goes quiet – not a social being,
no, no and no. My poisoned hopes,
the imagined embrace, the radiant summer light,
my dead memories. It is good down here on the carpet,
I keep listening to my heartbeat, hoping it stops,
And that thing that was me eventually ends, too.