Katalin Pusztaszeri

Leftovers

Confessing your ultimate words with a neck between the edges of sharp ambitious clamps...your knees in the dust scraped of spiky stones and piercing human plastic waste from the planet.

It is not you, it’s Marie-Antoinette!

Ironing out your crumpled frozen nerve-fibers day by day degenerated into a coarse rope-lash during the movements... bending over a cranky-wonky board, browned by water stains and sprinkles of sweat...you are endlessly mimicking peace and silence.

It is not you, it’s your mother's silhouette!

Standing at the entrance of a huge white circus tent with nose shaped tilts and balloon oleanders, disgusted by the stinky idea of that split-faced clowns and mad animal trainers are entertaining innocent children and their deviant parents.

It is not you...these are black sliders, the rest!

Emerging from shallow rivers, balled up by the vision of chopped nude body- masses...you make a balk, when gooey kelps and skiddy fish-scales start clutching around your legs...and here is this annoying old Zeus, with goat beard trying to attract your attention by looking askance.

It is not you, your mind is being wrecked!

Sitting in a countryside porch alone, craving for relax or a minuscule hope for happiness...your neighbors light fire...now, you have to breath in the smoke of the queasy-burned chicken legs; deterred by noise pollution from chanting hordes of drunkards and barking pets...to crying new born and rogue teenagers, the question finally conceives in your head:

How many years should we stay on our asses?

My life has been stolen... this is not mine, it is somebody else's present.