AN EXTRACT FROM THE NOVEL “MUD-HOUSE”
that is how, that is how one should write
so nobody loves me because of that
and then to stay on the left shore
in Budapest where there is not a single bridge
where I shall cry remembering how beautiful I was
all of me carved from your dark body proportionally
like a snow-sprinkled cube of turkish delight
like blocks of stone in stonehenge
all comes to the same visibility parameter by night
so when you make me laugh
I can spread out in stereo
and range from sin to a naked laugh
when I pick it clean of top-soil
what remains to me will be
eczema on my chin produced by the black earpiece of a telephone
because you are. a mole you are an ugly warm snout
and you’d better not look
what happened on the surface:
your scarf rolled up like a snake on a couch
(fresh little mounds in my flower-bed
had already snuffed out all conventionally beautiful plants
including myself