Instant Art Bar, Budapest

over a coffee I’m facing
his skeleton like a mirror
forcing my mind to turn,
to distractions, inspirations
to strangers, to old friends.
I’m the splotches of Basquiat
and the voice of Beauvoir,
for the better, for the worse
I’ll get high on heels
and drunk on space,
looking so young
but acting so aged.
how chained are his feet?
like jewellery that rattles
how heavy his head?
drawing a line of battle
call me darling or morphine,
go through me to find you
or watch those clouds roll in,
like giant sheets, paperthin.

if you do, every now and then,
I’ll have to say these words again;
I wasn’t the one to send them,
I just knew it was bound to happen,

I knew it was bound to happen.