Man is finally reaching to a sandy,
sad, watery plane,
he looks around thoughtfully, and cleverly
he nods, he doesn’t hope.
This is also how I try without cheating
looking around easily.
Silver slash of an axe revealing
is playing on the tree’s leaf.
My heart is sitting on the branch of nothingness,
its little body is soundlessly shivering,
it’s surrounded with meekness
by the gazing, gazing stars.
In iron-colored sky …
It rotates in an iron-colored sky
the lacquered, cool dynamo.
Oh, noiseless stars in the sky!
The words sparkle between my teeth – –
In me, the past falls like a stone
through the void voicelessly.
The silent blue time leaves me alone.
A sword’s edge blinks up: my hair – –
My mustache like a mellow caterpillar enfolds
my fade flavored mouth.
My heart hurts, the words get cold.
But to whom could I tell – –
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Reménytelenül” (1933).
It’s alarming like the roaring sea
And just like the endless snow.
In the depths of his mask sad Death’s below-
Ah, it grabs into the comet of a cowardly Man, me
I throw my trembling soul in front of it.
I listen to my heart – is it still knocking?
And I’m tired of this monotonous music,
Though it’s so good if it beats and it’s solid.
I feel like walking on a swamp
And woe, the ground is sinking beneath me,
But still some soft resistance is whispering in me,
But my ears are stuffed. – Oh, what is still waiting
For me, who is now mute, numb.
With my head down, I succumb.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Csend” (1922).
Monsters give birth to monsters;
they lay their eggs,
spread them with their acids,
deface them with claws –
and when they leave the hive,
suffocating from terror,
facing a toxic world
that can’t surpass their own..
..their own toxic pumping
in their very heart
full of scars;
yes, we are just monsters.
I know no limit for fun 😃
because I own no limit in pain; 😞
no matter I’ve done 🤷♂️
because I’m always punished by my brain, 😞
but all that I’ve gone 🤯
would be as much hard to explain 😞
like the pun 😃
why I was knot there that day. 🤷♂️
Pocket poets have no good stories,
but what is a good story
We are none else more than fantasies
in some stranger’s fairy
So I’m happened no one sees
nay me, writing this story;
I’m just history.
It’s neither my pleasure, nor my style,
but I’ve been drinking for a while.
We already know it why:
some nights are just too heavy being dry.
I had been suffering and crying
even before alcoholic supplying,
but since I have it
I say: freck it.
I’m not looking for acceptance;
I hate myself even in this stance,
but surely I am passing time,
and I find words for my rhyme.
My dear Lord, Dionysus,
is tottaly not like Jesus;
he lets me do my own sacrifice,
and eases me directly by the price.
How should I thank him more
than just live and drink a bit more?
Life is hard even as a drunkard,
but it’s the life of a pocket bard.
Enjoy your Happy Meal –
and remember: it’s Happy;
it was cheap and near,
fitting the mouth and belly,
a toy for the family-feel;
why would it be crappy?
Some people borrow others’ sorrow
to change it for happiness:
buying beautitude on solitude;
I’m such a dude,
but it’s rather rude
that I’m a brute
when it comes to Finance.
Here’s the fellow who’s not mellow
I’m born rotten and forgotten
I had had poems, kind of solemn
But here I am with crying rhyming
I’m good in bad moods and vice versa
I tried to be a smartass, but proven the least smartest
I’m still unknowing, and not going
I’m a born clown, pulling down
I’m in a vortex, out of context
I can’t heal, I can’t feel
I’m surely nut and I am not
*the door creeks*
“Ah, I’ve been waiting it for weeks.”
“It’s surely the Reaper, my ordered undertaker.”
*waiting for nothing*
“Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his slow helldog to do the job.”
*the void avoids my thoughts*
“Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so numbly dummy!”
“Somebody, take my thoughts and take my voice! Don’t let it to be my choice.”