The room
Brown walls
heavy old blue curtains hanging in pairs in front of the window
one is caught on the corner of the desk, he would
never touch it
suddenly a fit is born by his mood; bloody nail traces of his smeared spasms on the table
column-like blue bird hanging in front of him its wings maimed
suicidal act of the curtain
Lampstand sharing its weird mood; yellow light it only breaks
the place next to the bed into scrubby brightness
The bed is for two; covered by some material sewn from frayed pieces it waits for the dreamer to spread out shouting into the pillow sweating… choking silently
at midnight he fights with demons and mutters spells
The loneliness of his own smell lurking in the room makes him feel safe
The demon whose name is Fabrias Greianah taught him that he could wake up the dead
he could comfort the fools for none of them is one; just talked to him… his name is Fabrias Greianah
He needs a space like the room and needs a dreamer whose name… does not matter
That day
white frost. dawn smudging underneath a bush.
sharp sunshine as I walk on That day
to scrape something up for the fire.
only minus six… cold
slaps me in the face I pale into the landscape.
I am not angry; it does not hurt.
yet it seems as if I were offended
tears pour down and That day freezes on me
some kick me others scare me
helplessly stranded
in this winter.
Kindling needed from leftover wood
Break an old bed into pieces,
it used to put me to sleep in summer.
junk lying around in places thought to be empty
task-book written in full; soaked, dog-eared
some of the lost things are good and will keep you warm.
in the afternoon at the fire by lamplight
I gather all my failures
grab them with the bed, with all the papers
throw them in the furnace so I can still enjoy the warmth on That day and remember.
…but first
herewith I block myself. from now on anything is allowed.
step into the lake. walk on water. rearrange clouds.
be merry. get out of the coffin.
recharge without cables. straighten flowers.
dip into the sun up to your wrist. hold a handful of light.
take God to your tongue. taste his letters.
wave to angels. wake up to a kiss. fly away.
kiss footprints lying flat on the ground.
run on all fours after mother. hug the wind.
smell out scents. lock them in jars.
and if you are full? you can circle the day as an important
date. then back to Addictology but first…
… have another drink with Bukowski…
Writ
(the wings)
my room's a servile space i serve
cold trapped inside it groans and begs
rain fights me the element of wind resists,
brainwater what I write, tsunami washes me
my soil twitching, and by the time I wash up on my shore
like a suicidal whale i am naked
a downtrodden black open-winged
dead bird wet sand soaks me in completely
hollowness of my bones is shaman drum's beat
there is no magic
torn thread strange spider-thread end
sentence not yet begun; its subtlety all dead
wasted steam kettle whistling
bored skull
i let all my creations whistle through
and fill mugs with my thirst
my voice lost
no wood corner of the shed just a blur
it ran out after four yesterday
me before four today
my nose is cold white, its tip red
look out carefully for my good time but
let's not start the fire yet, only when it's the three of us
sun and moon above smoke the edge of my word-sooted land
sneeze on it, spittle spacing me out
overcooked cursed pasta
i can eat what I thought tomorrow for you
hoping for something new, but if there is none
wash it down, from the sand-filled glass of
Gabriel, the angel of inspiration i drink up
every begun line of my delusions.
Way of the Cross 2020
and So your footprint hardened into stone
no blaze on some dandy promenade.
no sparkling froth. sharp stones. you promise
my bare foot will be scraped by that step when i find it.
and So my devotion is not real yet.
forgive me if my wail is induced by pain.
my own pain and So it is not for you
falling for me. you bore the cross for me.
and So there is something in it, yes. with selfish
relief i kneel on the road.
i was told you picked up every stone ahead of me.
scattered seeds on it. words dripping from your mouth
became rich black soil and nice green grass.
and So i have paparazzi flashlight
in my eyes. yes, i am seeking you.
want to put you on the front page, so i can be
the first man who ever laid eyes on you.
i'm still in doubt. if
i photographed you into my soul, would i tear up
your lawn for you? so i could crawl with bleeding knees
on all fours up to your footprint.
Károly Lencsés Works I
These works are part of a volume of poetry, The Dead Lover, by Hungarian poet Károly Lencsés and translated by Ágnes Megyeri. A collection of his works have been selected, arranged by Why Vandalism? for this year's publication.
Karoly Lencses is a Hungarian poet and visual artist, born in Nyiregyhaza, Hungary, in 1976. He has been writing from a very early age; his first attempts were in primary school, his passion for writing has not faded since. He has numerous publications in most Hungarian literary magazines. He has had two books of poems published, and his poems are included in many anthologies. Recently, he has been granted the Andras Dugonics literary prize, an award granted by the public.