képek, betűk

dried-out faces sink into you
into the salty, watery skin-reservoir, beside your past
they lie there in your bed
you are each of them, you would embrace them
but from the touch, they fade
so you try to remain motionless
in the dark room, so they might stay
and you can touch them ---
a mother, a grandmother, love
perhaps if you had a father and liked him...
then you sigh heavily
with one motion, you shoo them away
let the whole thing pass, since here
in this world, there is no place for the beautiful
for kind things, for reverie
here only the iron-jawed idiots, popular liars,
greedy laughter has remained,
and the immeasurable trash, and
the common clichés — collected and shat out by pseudo-AI...
models. models and fake-creativity,
vulgar, copied, standardised kitsch ---
Briefly: everything that can be sold and made popular—
boulevard art or political propaganda,
People have become self-institutions, self-companies,
each with their own propaganda and marketing.
What a pathetic world…
You do not care... 
then you fall asleep; meanwhile
you are afraid maybe cry,
or just stare the wall, become a shadow--- hope:
you wish you had disappeared,
and no one would find you tomorrow,
or ever.