This…

I sit in “Moskva” waiting the depart , Communist spine ache
Sliding…

A perishing dark if modern peace
A language dying
A people failing to oblivion
Stuck on the freezing Baltic quickening

Crossing rivers of peaceful pasts
Ancient romanic thoughts, rotted to time.

Distant rotting wheeled coffins
Busz, Tram or HEV
Where a space is not a space, it’s a FIDESZ lie

A life your “own” a life of puppets and strings

UK disease like SARS, like a matrix

A dustbin with to disposal

A bureaucratic file of singular ignorance
A Gypsy in charge, a gamut of cowards “living”, to chickens to the slaughter

Memories frown, I hate what’s
A bolt, a shop, culture, where
This isn’t me, not here, or there
My/ his birth meaning nothing to majestic outpour

How can love be here?, my fright to show, the strain I can’t cope never knowing where or who I am

The back wound giving notice to late, as I accept her desires displaced in silence

My equal win. And loss of this fullest fake confidence

Nomadic through arrogance of my own watching

Distrust I feel of her, failure, this Duna though dry, drowns

These people are not of me, as those were of me, me??

Who is this, where, why is this, a cold person in a textile jungle
Trapped in immobility, dirt, psychosis

I am alone in millions, not one soul I meet is here
Lives extinguished

Magyarország Dead…

This is not us………..

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