A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame’s aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.
The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there’s no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.
just a little bit
I could have
into an agonistic
I trusted only myself from the beginning –
if you have nothing, the cost will be willing
for the man. In no way it will be more
than for the animal that dropped not living anymore.
Even if I was scared, I found my stand-
I was born, I mingled and I did out-stand.
I even paid everyone just as was the measure,
who gave it for free, I accepted with pleasure.
Women, if I was play-toy for any of their flattery:
I believed it really – let them be happy!
I scrubbed ships, pulling buckets as my only tool.
Among smart gentlemen, I played the fool.
I sold spinners, breads and books,
newspapers, poems – whenever what smooths.
Not in a glorious combat, not on a gentle rope,
but I end up in a bed, sometimes I hope.
Either way, now the inventory is ready.
I lived – and even others have died in it already.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila Jozsef, “Kész a leltár” (1936).
‘One’ for every human variables,
‘Zero’ for all how I care,
‘One’ for every feelings on the world,
‘Zero’ I understood or cared.
Once life must end in general,
Zero counts all my care,
One variable’s life in the mass
Zeroed in matter of fare.
in a corner
I try to escape
in grandmaster games
I try to avoid
at his inquest
my peace of mind
out of wedlock
I miscredit judgments from
among whole numbers
my death will be
Absurd thoughts coming from a spotless mind;
Burning bridges and looking sadly behind,
Crying out tissues without real issues,
Dying in seconds thinking of a muse,
Entering her life so that to leave,
Finding myself newly naive,
G spots for her pleasure,
Hiding as a treasure,
Returning to the muse,
Seeking that happiness,
Turning back cuz I’m a mess,
Unwanting to go outside of this hell,
Venting in poems there’s no one to tell,
Why I am here, I don’t know nor I do care,
X-Ray shaming clouds smoked in my despair,
You could help on me, so it will be all your fault,
Zero meaning or happiness I found just as Mersault.
To what, all of us are ever subservient,
Sith, being inspired is being alive on its own;
Letting the soul to inspire the fresh reasons of life,
What-without, all of us are just junks of empty organs.
What is taken by the reciprocal goal
Of living for living, looking for no end, no beginning;
As plants, animals and we humans struggle in its vicissitudes,
The essence and quintessence all of this is living with a goal.
What is life itself, but not on its own
Since only an inspired, breathing soul can feel;
Feeling the love of the poet, the zeal in a painting,
By meaning of every day is an art, and art is the drug of every day.
What once is the meaning of life,
After a glance, the most painful drug a man can taste,
Brought by the sweetest venom of a woman’s play and demand,
Killing and enlivening by itself and by its drinkable, smokable antidotes.
What is fear’d, but inspires us the most,
Its single existence urges us to seize the day;
Seize it by love and art while we are still here, living,
Seize it by seeking inspiration in every moment of not being dead.