I tried to think of something, but I couldn’t.

Then I tried to feel, but that failed too.

At last, with my fingers around

the hot coffee mug,

I tried to feel its warm, but only acknowledged it.

I tried to think of someone from long ago,

but no one came to mind. Then I would have liked

to worry, but that too failed.

I only sat in the armchair,

watching the shadows.

I wrote this text, aand thought

I could just as well lie ----->

something beautiful.

“everything will be all right,

nothing will hurt today!”

“you’ll manage this too,

you’ll get through it! it will be all right!”

“the scientists are coming to rescue this decay!”

“one day there will be someone

who loves you!”

“next year will be better!

there is progress!”

“humanity is wonderful!

what’s more! God exists too,

not only as Mickey Mouse’s

imaginary friend.”

I tried to see myself

wanting success,

but it only made me nauseous.

Then I thought of

someone stroking me;

that frightened me.

I pictured someone kissing me,
but it only brought to mind a cold caterpillar,
the way it moves in my mouth,
coughing up disgusting slime.

Finally, I stopped —

pointless nonsense,

no lesson, no opinion, no anything,

gazing out of emptiness into emptiness:

to put a full stop here.

our world is like a strange abusive relationship
we have grown used to it being dreadful
we have become accustomed to harm, to stress, to violence
we see it as normal
and if, by chance, you notice? it hardly matters
there is no escape,
there is no hope.
and in the end, you become abusive yourself
you take part in the destruction — by the way you live
you hurt the planet, the trees, the world
like a true abuser, you think:
"it can take it, it is used to it, we are used to it"
"this is how we live"
"science, god or politicians will save it"
that is how it is:
we do not give a fuck
we do our daily job
we exploit others
we sort the rubbish into coloured bins
and donate some money twice a year
yes — that does sound like a real abusive hell

in the end I was wrong, as usual, but it was good that way ----->
a cat stared through the window, and
blowing souls out of chewing gum
on one stripped-bare globe after another,
i invited it to the kitchen
we cooked soup out of hypocrisy.

today I will be wrong again, like yesterday
I keep watching the lowered blind,
wondering what could be outside ---:> streets? free molecules?
dog-shit mountains reaching up to the clouds?

I told you I was wrong yesterday.
a man in hazmat suit took a sample from the truth.
your hand is colder than my nose — let’s swap,
now you can be cold, too.

I knew I would have to be wrong after all,
everything always turns out for the best.
the sun will shine forever from today — that is the decision.
everyone is saved. the heroes kiss.

my stomach hurts. the stress-worms are drilling tunnels.
with every step, a black lamp burns.
a hairy hand gives out bananas,
they steal Saturdays, then the trees, the lakes,

...they devour the moon, eating each other’s chocolate,
licking the paint off the moulded walls.
with knives and forks they attack the chimneys,
the comedy of the situation could just an easy crying.

I was wrong, I am wrong, and I will have to fail again.
the trap of thoughts is the final outcome.
the empty conclusion and a glass of salt water,
let us sleep, let us rest, and lie ourselves a beautiful day,

one in which even fear is pleasant,
where pain feels like a gentle touch,
and the time itself turns hatred into a joke,
and there is nothing but what you would like to be --->

anything, anything at all —
and no one dictates,
nobody exploits others
anymore.

We are locked inside our own age,
like a prison from which we cannot escape.
Power, wealth, empires,
science, faith, philosophy,
habits, lifespan, fashion,
technology, hierarchies —
they surround us like bars
in a cage that is constantly moving,
from which we can scarcely see out.

Everyday life sprouting from our wounds stretched wider
In the middle, a pulsing bag filled with water; you hold its mouth shut
On a sheet of paper, you wrote “I feel nothing” a hundred times — you read it
A wasp taps against the window, who knows why: you weep for it

Clotted days chase one another like tangled stitches
We ourselves have no idea what is inside them — stones, gold, embraces
If two days were missing from life — would we even notice?
Everything would simply keep working — an indifferent, precise machine.

Perhaps one day there will be a day when everything is reversed
But let there not be! Because I do not want the cheerful ones to cry
It is better if everything stays as it is — let the days come, not wait around
Not that what I believe matters — I will become the silence of silence.

A "narratíva" a kortárs hallucináció 
épp legnépszerűbb utaztatása a mennyekbe - színes ceruzákkal
rajzolt, batikolt, tussal odacsapott, olajjal mestermunkált
míves és mívetlen médiamunkások
narratíva-léghajókon, -repülőkön, -csónakokon, -űrhajókon
kínálnak helyeket az utasoknak,
nincs hazugság, nincs igazság, nincs probléma
narratíva a selymes szájú habcsókemberek
a fényes tekintetű ideológiákat halmozó
és a propagandát véleménynek tekintő cinikusok
kedvenc slágere, az évszaktól független nyál,
a merevedési zavarok elleni csodakóla -
az élményekre vágyó kirándulók
ki-mit-mondtott, ki-mikor-mit állított sültek,
mikor-mit-beszélt, mit-mondtak-az-emberei saláták,
mikor-mit-cáfolt, ki-mit-mikor-esetleg öntetek előtt
tátogva várják:
melyik percben melyik narratívát tálalják majd -
mint orr a kutyaszarban, nyelv a herék alatt,
esetleg kövérkésre hízott pattanás a fülben,
a pszeudo-világ önmaga bizonytalansága kevés,
a folyamatos stimulációval adagolt agyi maszturbáció is kell,
hogy a fikciós álomgyár pozitív üzenetekké erektálódva -
elsüljön: beterítve az ölbe terített papírzsepit,
vagy utolsót vibrálva: megpöckölve a G-pontot - áááá, íííí!
az előfizetői csomagokban csilingelő pénz,
a támogatásokba, feliratkozásokba, lájkokba kvantált puszi
működni látszik, akár Frankenstein menyasszonya - 
a végletesen megosztott tartalom-fogyasztók
megkapják amit várnak: a napi narratíva általi kielégülést,
gyémánt sugárban fülön át a vénákba,
a hitet, tézist, tényeket varázsgomba-főzetté alakítva,
magunkba öntve: velünk repüljön a boldogság,
a folyamatos öröm és a vigaszba pödrött remény.

Everything still says nothing, always.
Absurd, absurd, and more absurd still.
"There would be sunshine" you say, and smile.
No message, no grand part to play,
only the worn-out, stinking stage
where people already mad go madder,
worshipping themselves all the more.
They order mirrors from some hell or other,
spewing plastic fires.
The Plough limps across the sky,
looks down, spits, and moves on,
tapping an empty coffee mug
for the umpteenth dose of survival.
The other primates sleep in boxes:
alphas, omegas, and the bare ones in between.
The wind rattles at the garden door.
A drunken idiot howls beneath the hedge.
Tomorrow, tucked into a suit, he will grin,
sell, buy, and babble as he wrecks things,
making content with an AI monkey-frame,
piling rubbish onto rubbish with greater force,
hallucinating a bright future for money.
Here is this one — no one, sleeplessly vacant,
thinking: the whole thing can go to hell,
shat on from a very great height.

a magány könyve, kifordított biblia
mint a tegnapi zokni lábaiddal töltve,
fülemben zongorákon álló énekhangok,
mint memóriaszivacsra huppanó fej,
levegőt, szüntetet - minek? az elvonuló,
megrágott felhők szürke csacsisorai,
a távolodó, talán elfogyott, "kit érdekel?",
vagy elszakadt valami, félreértés?
a közöny maga az utca az utcákon?
hideg színekkel megfestett házak szaga,
egymáson lebegő háromszínű autókban,
szorongás, gyors légzés, magad hullaszaga -
nem folytatom - mert az is egyforma,
a panaszaimban alvó szánalmas mini-ember,
beteges, kínos szánalmassága,
stressztől vállaim közé szorult fejem,
betonná sűrűsödött agy - az élet rühe,
degenerálódó idegrostok melankóliája,
le kellene ráspolyozni a lelkemet,
félelmet, bekeményedett gyanakvást,
sebekig legyalulni, megkeresni 
a kikapcsoló gombomat, rátapsolni
lenyomni, megnyomni - elaludni,
visszatérés nélkül, egy tengerről,
erdőről, hegyekről álmodva - legvégül.

Moments like these are frightening:
when a system or a regime fails,
or a politician,
or a major corporation makes a mistake,
and for a moment reality flashes into view.
For that second, appearances and propaganda no longer protect them.
For that instant, you can see
the true level of unmorality of its leaders and pundits.
Smiles turn into snarls, into monstrous faces.
Corruption, deliberate lies,
deception, cynicism, propaganda, hypocrisy
come bursting through the crack,
like water pouring into a holed ship,
only this is moving in the opposite direction —
it is unbelievable how low we have sunk.
This era is a paradise for sociopaths,
something that could perhaps be called sociopathism,
but I am not naming anything.
In truth, I no longer even care.
Perhaps it does not even matter.
I only smiled at an article
in which the true face of one Scottish politician
was visible for a moment.
But this is only a drop in the ocean.