Three Poems
ABOUT THE WRITER
László Anaryi is a Hungarian poet and occultist who has been previously published in Bizarre Publishing House, RIC Journal, and Dead Man’s Press.
You can download a copy of his newest collection of written and visual poems Sacred anarchy! for any price here.
Pigs, bats...
The President is a clay puppet.
(All police on a leash.)
They give you money,
we get fat on slop.
God at the triple crossroads lurking loan shark,
hanging bats are our stars...
Poem from the notebook hidden under the doghouse
I was good enough to fuck you, eh?
The people spread around us are amorphous,
doughy masses.
A hole widening in the middle of a phalanx.
THERE,
close to the body, the intertwining stranglehold,
face to face with that ungodly, hideous creature.
Uglier than that night, right before the cunt-charm.
Grotesque, over-the-shoulder horse head, greasy, torn mane,
and the body of a seal,
there is vomit like living ketchup on his apple-green coat,
Wow, that a massive burn, god damn!
What’s more, the bus isn’t coming...
Still, this fifteen or twenty minute of time
was probably more valuable,
than twenty years of marriage!
A constantly returning stubborn ghost.
I still have the bubbling honey-flavored mystery
of her unclean, tainted juices,
And what her narrow slit-pupil reflects:
The waking, living mass of the Universe.
Most of the time what exists leaves no trace,
flows unhindered through the filter of our soul.
The standard becomes obsolete within moments,
only the distorted, the sick, the extraordinary is eternal! And
behold, there is another stage:
“I’m not shy... I can take off my panties right here... Want me to?”
I watch some prudish proletarian whimpering and snarling.
Thank God, my wife’s not here.
(She’s sacked out... She’s in “too much wine” mode again...)
l’ll end up being a monk anyway.
I always get a woman like that fall to my lot.
The Horse is Laughing
A slender, curved pole
impaled it. Overturned the carriage.
With an unworldly face, the stubbled, old,
coachman sits on the ground with bleeding-head
We are gentlemen...
(Massive drunkenness by this time.)
The girl sweating sheds her light dress
In the mold and carrion-smelling doorway.
Her milk membrane skin is rough.
Cadaverous
stunted policeman
takes notes.
The fleeing shadow
is melting-congealing, expanding-shrinking,
and
whispers in a sepulchral voice:
“Holy shit,
look,
the dead horse is laughing!”