Translated by Tímea Sipos

You bring your fucking pictures up north too.


In the mornings, you stare at the water. Your ponytailed ancestors

apparently washed the fright off themselves here.

Like a cleanse. The Rhine ate it, gobbled up

everything. In high humidity, the German curse

seeps into the lungs. Now it’s your turn.


A horrible hole beside your bed.

(Instead of head, out of mercy)


Someone put a hole in the wall and used your hand

to do it. A mortar-farce.

Go ahead, watch the darkness.

It’s not only unsanitary,

but the night’s centipedes also bustle around,

walking in and out. Shocked fish, British eels,

weaving shadow webs with damp bodies.

Prenatal reset.

They bite without teeth, live on your flesh.




It’s time. Call your mother from the Rhine

to plug this cursed hole already,

from which her coddling,

all too familiar


spill out.




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