InkMind

The social 'isms - we dreamt our adulthood in and now,
the corrupt 'ishness - we live our childhoods again.
And he lives, he lives!
In death basin of Europe.
Orbán 'istan, because home doesn't exist anymore.
There is only 'ism 'ishness in the 'istan of the proletár desert.
But sand riders are not welcome,
they cannot bring their dustness onto clean church floors!
And even if you stemmed out of that clean stone.
Go to your west and live another 'ism life, alone.

I walked.

But not alone, I took my people, and they,
took me to the London Eye.
To look at this city, below,
so we can bask in the glory of our freedom.

A very poor freedom, that we couldn't afford.
To spread on top of our avocado toast and,
my first mango at age 19.
That sweet, sweet juice mixed in salty tears,
dripping down, sizzling away on the pavement.

Oh, but we were poorer.
Deprived of the fundaments.

I walk.

Click-clack of fake leather boots on the late hour street,
and it snaps, in me, that something.
I go in the pub on the corner,
smooth-shaved moth drawn in by Irish banter.

Like a Wild West movie.
The turn of heads when the lone traveller swings the door open,
and silence. Stranger.
A pair of eyes closing in on my breasts, but there is a glimmer of hope,
in the way.

It was the 15th of March.

That red-white-green cockade,
red-white-red smiles,
cheer, free beer, merry song!

But why the long face darlin’?

It’s the 15th of March.

So? We march! Aaay!

We did. We marched. Oh, how we marched.
But their feet struck the ground harder.
Hammering blood, and sweat into that oh, so holy ground.
And the chants, were screams, were cries, now pain.

We know it. Trust me, we do.
The spent blood and spent souls.
The cries. The pain.

When I was a child, I picked the building wall away,
with a high pitch plonk it fell.
An old bullet, didn’t serve its purpose well.
Wasted ammunition of another time,
waste from both sides.
They were shooting bullets.
We were shooting souls.

It is no help to feel so much about the past,
there is enough pain now.
I said my thanks and goodbyes.

I walked.

If I suck the blood out of the ground
can I make an ocean?
To quench the thirst of everyone
coming for our lives?

When the morning comes, I go.
To my mother’s arms.
To my father’s heart.
And I ask:

When did you realize? When did you lose the fundaments?

Oh, sweet child. We lost it before we left.
Amongst the debt, amongst the pain, it was just another sore.
But we knew there was hope for you.

I walked.

The warmth of home slowly slipping off my skin,
rootless, floating.

I don’t remember the first time someone told me.
If it was in person or in writing?
Traitor.

It sits softly on my tongue,
like communion wafer
I should wash down with wine.

I walked.

The door swings open once again.
But this time, smiles, pleasant greetings,
no stranger anymore.

Should I feel at home?
Is it my right to say:
Hey, there is nothing wrong,
with immigrants.

Look at me.
I work.
I live.
I think.
I feel.
I sink,
Into depression.
Just like you and your friends.
But I’m not like you, let’s not pretend.

Hold on now!
Keep your shouts.
It's not you I want to talk to,
something about.
Not you I have to fight with.
I would like to address,
all of them at home.
I will take words from someone they all know:

“Dicsőséges nagyurak, hát
Hogy vagytok?
Viszket-e úgy egy kicsit a
Nyakatok?

Új divatú nyakravaló
Készül most
Számotokra... nem cifra, de
Jó szoros.”

I have to stop now, apologise.
Because these folk here don’t understand.
Let me help. Get there with it.

"Highly esteemed overlords, well
How goes it?
Do your necks itch, tell the truth, a
Tiny bit?

Neckwear of the latest trend, to
Serve you right,
We’ve prepared … it’s nothing chic, but
Nice and tight."

And now you see, my friend,
the looks on those faces.

So still, to you, over there, at home,
but now without your understanding.
I speak. This.

Take a breath, think about it.
What now?
Are you sending me?
To the gallows with me?
Oh, but you can't.
I am just a woman.
With a womb to be filled...
So do it. Now!
Rape me!
Tear me apart!
Or maybe, let's make it easy,
and let this one fall over a komondor,
by herself.
Or get it on with!
Before it's too late.

Who will protect me?
Who will mess their hands up?
Traitor blood.

Bark at me.
Like the dogs you are.
But if you wish to take a bite,
out of me...
Please, sit. It might take a bit.
The Orbán regime,
boils revenge freshly.

- 2024, London 

InkMind

must be quiet, not to wake you;
socks scratching _ on the carpet
got up and the bed creaked… ! ring clinks on the water bottle ¬ sharp air in through teeth
bed’ is empty. no one sleeps

– 2023, Warsaw

InkMind

Drizzling down my thighs, drowning my ankle and marking the earth in my footsteps. The essence of life that didn’t start. My only power, my value determined by others. Look at my leg! There is your son. A puddle. What is my worth now? Your disappointment is a wedged splinter under my skin. I am marked for all to see again. Used but useless. I sit in it. On the ground, soaking my clothes with my gone chance of survival. This is us. Your distorted face. And my disgust. I died again. How much more? How much longer? Give me peace in return of the things I gave you. One life and two deaths.

– 2022, London

InkMind

Soft, wet umbilical cord
Wrapped around our wrists
We are held hostage by our ovaries,
They condemn us for their sins
We have not yet committed against ourselves.

The thumping blood in our veins,
Poisoning us, filling us to the brim,
With Their lies about our own confessions.

A cut.
A slit.
To set us free from our sculptedness.
Marble statues carved by envy hands.

– 2022, London

InkMind

Sitting in the shadows,
In the corner, watching people
From the comfort of darkness.
It is quiet here, I imagine
Morphing into a Kafkan creature
Or Rider, if I would be a hero.

Occupying the windowsill seat, the pub Pleb behind me, drowning My brain with noise. How much cocaine do I have to shoot up to be like Sherlock Holmes? This vitamin-C tablet sizzling on my tongue Like a rancid pussy I eat up on a Sunday morning – A fresh panna cotta

– 2022, London

InkMind