m�g mindig att�l visszhangzik
a reng� v�z f�l�tt a ny�rfasor
hogy �rtem te mindent.

(2018. 02. 11.)

a. d.

your words just flew and vanished
flew and vanished
flew and vanished

what did you think?
that the wind would pour dust in their gaping holes?
that my scorn would fill them with acid?
that wolves would yowl the choir to back your psamls
and in the end, I would get over it?

your song is ceaseless, yet incomplete
and in its vice lies its witless allegory
small wonder that trouble comes on its own
when the botcher writes a symphony

go back to the shoes you've repaired
to guide the paths of your desertion
no man of art you can be
howling such a hymn of confliction

a symphony in A-minor
to outbreast a choir in major D,

harder to grasp than lapping waves
that play with your shoes in springtime
up the unforgiving North

I guess it's just that we both think,
it cannot be art if it doesn't hurt.

( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKQhnxluNdc )

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work process

I have a hole into the Void under my bed -
sharpened diamond edges
winds that run down your spine
pathless paths
no compass
and the presumption that my eyes watered *
unless, I wouldn't be here
and nor would these words.

* theft from Tom Stoppard's  'Rosencrantz and Guildernstern Are Dead' .