I’d gone to Budapest

to try and

make my handwriting

smaller. No, that’s

 

not quite right, but then

neither am I, and the Danube

isn’t blue, and neither am I,

but green and brown,

a bit like the sky.

 

The therapy of ill-repute —

those window-sill splatterings —

got the royal grind on girlfriend statistics —

Europa matters less

than this river, whose

grime bleats gold;

György’s insertion.

 

Still life with morning wood, loss

is hilarious. Stability

cums in Euros. The Forint

is a lousy currency (I love it!)

I think

all the toxins I needed to function

leaked out of me yesterday

at the Gellért — fuck! to be a tourist

once again!

is it really so much to ask???

 

I just found the hole of Europe, it was buried in my croissant. I wanted to go somewhere I have no life, thought the hills of Buda would be safe, first night here I run into one of my stalkers from the olden daze. Drink the waters, they will cure yr lung ailment.

 

The river itself is muted and bleak. A toxic golden green, lovely, that shimmers beneath the Sunday afternoon skylessness. You walk along it hoping to fall in, fantasizing suicide hard-on, meet me in October. You forgot you were coming on, what, the 56th anniversary of 56, clever planning, the city was shut, but all the rip-off joints stayed open — get to be a tourist after all.

 

Am I the only one who gets to drink from these waters. I just wanted a taste of the food, to be honest. We’re not all that far from what I was previously doing.

 

The river itself has nothing to say.

You had yr holiday.

You went to no museums,

but lots of bookstores.

Béla Tarr was there, so was

Kathy Acker. László Krasznahorkai.

The river

 

dives down, the molten panic

of this town, being here

 

is a lot like

 

nothing

 

and you love it so.

 

Memories of youngeryears

Praha

surge forth, then

bubble up

burped

to the surface

 

The river itself is a noun. The town is just as expensive now as all the others. Only the architecture remains. What they all fought for. Amazing. You look out the window. Autumn’s doing its thing, announcing winter’s near arrival. The statues etched into that building. Two women bathed in cloth, the one holds a piece of fruit up to her ear. I want the day to arrive

 

I understand who I am. Here, in the center. Walking over the green bridge, green water down below. Not to die, but fantasize yrself to be one with the water.

 

A molecule. Maybe that’s what I came to discover.