Daniel is having a threesome
After all, it’s also a novelty to ride a scooter-taxi
even if there is nothing novel about the boy,
maybe the esoterics are correct:
there are twelve kinds of people
from the Budapest to Sri Lanka,
borehole depth is required to
to be touched by one’s own emotions.
Because everyone is Princess Diana in their own tale,
the oppressed beautiful, tragic icon,
nobody longs for constructive activity,
instead of fluttering,
who wants to spend a lifetime in responsibility
and hats of many colours,
rather than with tragic suddenness
next to an Arab billionaire.
Black crows standing high on a mountain are calling,
that everything starts again all of a sudden,
things differ in their similarity,
old women are wise because of time,
train tracks rumble hopefully,
rising from a concrete sarcophagus
philistines are crying for the messiah,
self-deluding hags
eat earthworms for dinner,
centaurs who have lost their antlers
spawn sea urchins,
they show that everything can exist,
but yet not everything does,
there are no zebras with laser guns in their heads,
yet Tamil boys write bad poems
yet what exists repeats itself,
with perforated barriers,
with dead bodies, stretchers,
desks with paint stains,
the same, but innumerable,
in a repeating pattern.
Deodorant
There is no inflection point,
no new material is formed,
the old remains, transforms
the engine of the Big Bang dies down,
a human is nothing but
the totality of his actions,
there is nothing unknowable by others,
everyone is the way they talk to the waiter,
self-made photos of young adults sticking deodorants up their anuses
for the purpose of seduction
sent in poor resolution images
to decorated cloud-spaces
where floating compound-eyed wasp-body
cherubs look on in anguish,
with the help of lost pilgrims,
old ladies retired to huts and
butcher’s assistants passing chicken liver between their fingers,
desire that at least
let them
access the secret documents,
where clerks with pens for fingers
scribbled over what anyone wants to know
of anything.
Wednesday
How do we show what we know of the world,
of boring house parties with stale chips
and boys who’s freshly cut hair showed
how ridiculous it is to try this hard,
of getting your thighs felt up during a lecture
by someone who was but fodder for your nostalgia,
a first love burning only in retrospect,
of meetings, of people who enjoyed the way their voice
washed away everything,
like a tsunami of regurgitated of soundbites,
of trying your best and failing your best,
of months on end spent clinging to the one day of the week
when you didn’t drink,
how to you make yourself worthy
of ushering a new life,
through sex-trafficking rings, and widows tending to empty
apartments,
of being a tour-guide where you also get lost,
but lost in familiarity,
this great testament,
a gift, but undeserved,
a new car before you got your licence,
life changes irrevocably,
when you arrive,
welcome, I am here,
on the bench alone eating a meat pie
post-anorexic, hung over and wise for
the youth that’s gone now,
I’ve been here
for years.
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Peter Ungar is a Member of the Hungarian Parliament for the Greens, has been publishing poetry in literary journals for the past years. He is 33 years old, studied in Edinburgh University.