Laszlo Aranyi


He thought he heard some kind of muffled hiss.

(Like the pop of the slipery-cool carp’s swim-bladder
in our clenched grip )
He fell nine stories.

And instantly he was smeared on the asphalt
              (He didn’t say as much as a “holy shit”…)
Passers-by formed an orderly circle, staring at the sight.
       The ice-cream cone looks like the holy grail 
held by the fingers of a big-assed woman
                     who greedily licks with her
       elongated tongue heavy with the plaque of decay.

       At such times the wrecked remains are abandoned 
beyond the limits of our perception. 
The departing cool is pale, light as breath pink that fades to white.

                    Piss trickles down from under the skirt 
that wraps around a broken thigh bone pierced 
through the skin,
                    Bicycle wheel and
              shoe prints:
                           Strange jewels on a dancing pool of blood.  


Translated by Gabor Gyukics

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