Tell Us Something We Don't Know (2nd draft)

Eyes rolled like eggs

in the cutlery drawer

The coffee stains

on the rug

began to bleed

That looks uncomfortable

I gathered the eyes

in a pan

lit the gas

The pupils were pips

to be pulled

with tweezers

They hummed

in a bowl

A bubble broke

the surface

of the water

I covered my mouth

with my hand

Pardon you

I'll leave you to it

I danced

with the fireguard

during the wait

but he was overexcitable

and had to be sent

to the cupboard

under the stairs

to calm down

I smoked a cigarette

to cover the screaming

The challenge had made

my hands shake

the air was blue lace

Revolution Day (unfinished)

From the park

to Heroes Square

grandparents hold

their inheritors aloft

like flags, painted faces

blend into charcoal

helmets as beetles

swarm the streets,

slice the junctions

with guillotine blades,

an almost unnoticed

handover before coffee

shop windows.

Cyclists dismount,

trams judder, a tin

voice echoes over

conversations

about the varying

degrees of McDonalds

standardisation

across continents,

'But we haven't tried

Hungarian food yet'.

Remove and walk.

Blacked out eyes

of oil coach slugs

unloading ants

onto the pavement.

An old man flutters

against plastic shutters

in the tunnelled

underground,

resurface into the

eye storm,

a headlight looms

and fades.

Alize

I can remember drinking

that too-sweet wine

in the sorozo, where fat

men sweat over fruit machines.

I led you through charcoal

wallpaper to the wrong

side of the looking glass,

road signs shrank

like night butterflies

in paper cups, owls

framed a tiny door.

We were lizards basking

in a decollage of glass,

brick and plastic, crows

pecking at a landmine,

we bent teaspoons

down throats

to steal yawns.

Among a shadow puppet

theatre of the grotesque

silhouetted on gables,

we are butter drenched.

I clutch my brown envelope

like a lunchbox,

and leave.

Sculpture (unfinished)

Discontent
with folding tissue
paper ducks
you developed a taste
for innards,

the hippopotamus skull
was the beginning,
like russian dolls
you scoop out layer
after layer, hang
them out to dry
like a butcher's
carcass,

your obsession
slit my chest open,
ripped my ribcage
like a corset,
filled me.

no matter
that the plaster
bloats the hollows
of my cheeks
like a drown
victim,
clogs my eyes
with pebble tears,

strung up,
skin shredded,
you display my core

like a burst plum

dripping from the sky.

Picnic

An ink crow

smudges the mist

of the sattelite orchard,

294 television screens

like Dali's window,

the transposed bodies

of men flickering,

etrog sweet.

I am the heart hunter

plunging through the trees,

prick the pregnant

boughs, burst fruit

flesh with my tongue.

I write my section six

on sliced white bread,

my right to squat

inside you,

but up ten hundred

flights of stairs

where light melts

my shoes, you wrap

yourself tight,

nut skinned.

My abortion sprayed

up the trunk,

I settle down

to peel.

Photgraph of Budapest

This city is a brittle leaf
Dry skin peels
from buildings,
carcasses of age,
bullet sprayed.
Metal cages clasp
construction sites
that swell the sky.
Streets are missing
teeth, cleanly dug
gaps of earth.
Statues roam
past parliament,
grazing
marble buffallo.

Cyclones tear
our throats out
beneath the pavement,
steel inspectors
pierce my face,
the beggars
dormitories expand
through the subways,
bare mattresses,
fruit box bedside
tables, couples
wrapped
in reading.

I tie parcel tags
to trees, label them as
Turcsi Orr,
Levél Bomba,
Diótöro
I glue wooden
picture frames
to broken windows
and call it
No Sugar,
Leftovers,
Ocean.

Look.

Biscuit

She took my hand,
led me through staggering
streets. We paused only
to wash our reflections
from puddles.

I scattered pieces of myself
through the city like crumbs,
scrunched beneath the cushions
of a dilapidated sofa,
pooled around the drain
in a flooded subway tunnel,
bobbing in tear
tracks on the road.

You found us curled
in the pocket
of your best friend’s
leather jacket.