SEND IT

Paul Simon has to write the world all over again:

the wasteland of our lonely words...

What would John Lennon say?!
"all those lo........ peo...."

A street tells me posting still exists
A wall proclaims colours are still alive
A pavement cracks my walk in two
A forest whispers eternity and scent

How do you write to your unknown kin?
How do cast spells on charismatic prophets?
How long will the lingering spell stand for?
How far does the cinematic orchestra echo?

A crackled puzzle of an empty building standing
A fizzled murmur of a broken window glistening
An open door greeting fresh air from the empty street
A lonely wall whose roof has left, crumbled at its feet

How do you mend a wound so good?

Today,

the modern corporate poets of our time would write:
"just send it"

Well to this I would answer the following:
by using the French word of "masse"= "lump"
"tu es une masse" - "you are a lump"
I can just say in a very effective, binary way:
We are a mass

a bloody heavy one.

thoughts collected in the streets of Debrecen, HU.

last feather of the year

Hope the wind was strong enough
Blew us away like a chilled autumn rain
But got lost in the flat dreams of this new land
of mine, mines of imagination and simply ours
Keeping watch on the straining morning necks
Of sunny moments in the wight of those forests
We leap on our feet like rabbits eating words
Metaphors of no style lying in openness.

"to lie, little one, that is the question"

Said the old hare.

and the family's autumn

And the family's autumn shun upon our faces
and leaves were falling, god's hiding places
Night and day of color, howling spin of faces
Standing like the mist in our morning mases

Swings don't shiver anymore, the rain got them
Leaves quiver, and nearby the flicker of a totem
Of chance, corner of uncertain minds and mayhems
Of desperate holiness laughing in the beauty of cold

O the cold years of old, mold of I and fold of you
O desperate whispers, o to a kitten's whiskers
an old line rattling on in the edge of my view

that of a lost poet, weak but smiling
in the autumn afternoon

to the ghost of all places

Road back

Waking up - two years ago

Two years ago, for the first time, I was waking up in a big room, lying on a home-made mattress. It was a first taste of freedom, after an evening spent discovering cheep pints of Borsodi beers and discussing the little experience I had as an independent individual. This had been the first evening on the verge of discovering a new country, discovering myself in a new life. This was not the oriental dream of going east, it was pursuing an urge to travel east of Berlin I inherited from high-school exchanges. I had finished the evening walking along the beautiful Duna with my host, completely drunk and sobbing a broken heart, half-tears, half-részeg. Részeg, for pissed. Stuff I didn't know at the time, having only just nearly registered some of the basic national drink-greeting vocabulary. I was waking up to the smell of something half-pancake, half-bread, or even half-cake. Confusion was such I could easily have analyzed the situation in reference to three halves of a whole.
Not knowing...
This is in many respects, the best thing I inherited from my first 3 weeks in Magyar land.
Not expecting, but ready as a street agent with his digital camera and imaginary weapons.
I woke up on Valentine's day, not realising this for one moment. I ended up at Kriszta and Pille's flat, the blind couple that hosted me before my departure for Debrecen - and was probably interrupting a nice evening for two - still not realising.
Now I realise this day is over, but I love it all the same. Looking forward is something which differs strongly from a fresh arrival, where the only thing that counts in your integration is the desire to experience, discover, feel, and encounter more... Desires which still flourish, but in the same way as one grows a little garden in the back yard, or a little flower bed to show, share, cherish a little happiness.
Akkor marad nekem az angol szó - ezek a szavak mint egy kis virág-ágy adok neked.
Flower-beds from the gentle clouds...

Road back - dreams about Van Gogh and Grey places

Debris - bruises and irony

Strange is a small word in a lunatic world of mad stories.
But meaning is a stranger one still.
Closed in a carpet studio where meaning is muffled and red, where design meets circus and freaks of soviet past end up hung in the garden, crows of a white but innocent silence.
Carpet for the smooth and cleansing humor of ghosts too weak and impossible to answer back, design for the force of style in sacrifice, strange totems are raised
as of those who are bought each day.
To buy, hence to swallow an important amount of frames to fill with our desired images of responsibility, ethics sleeping in the twilight of a golden leaf...
Branches caressing her cheeks while she walks through forest of disordered symbols ending at the tip of my tongue when I see her to the door.
To see, and to be of an order very self-righteously rich in tears - tearing at the bed sheets of our shaken minds gone to blow the wind of our waves. Our waves.
Movement so strange, her cry is muffled by the starkness of our totem's color.

Dresch Quartet - fuvolás