Kóma / Coma

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Coma

You stand daily outpace

above your packed suitcase,

iron wasps drunk on your tears.

The bite of the winter’s

tattoo refrozen puddles

drift and stuck on you.

Mum’s fallen fingers

On the strings of your

facial lines,hesitantly old

melodies swell.

The clerk’s ancient epilepsy is

in the law’s cacophony.

The unwrapped memorabilia’s

brick piles, lapses into pyramids.

Wandering friends trance on the passes of years.

The mind croaks, the scientist cries.

The right half, destructively rise new temples

the left, replace priests,

geld healingly

for stealing faith.

The insignias of your worn moral suitcase:

survived odours of slaughterhouses,

sexually in smuggled tricks,

the empty skulls and in their eye sockets

the peeping violets,

The long forgotten trips,

The secret panties, bras and their

creased vapour,

The walnut tree’s love letters.

Excitements, carved in school benches,

the thick drip of candles,

the pit of the first glass of alcohol,

a dilated pupil gazes into your mirror,

the emotional ram of your rebellious child,

the capsize of the porcelain potty.

All turn sepia brown, in musty albums,

atrophy to the tapestry of a museum.

You, who know how to crawl across borders;

time to cut some corners!

Turn over the stinky moral baggage!

Push aside the lunatic blockage!

2010-12-21 Friewald Gyula