Kinga Fabó

Unknown | 2/10/2015 |

Old Bitch of a Summer
(For her Sake:) furioso

Her revenge is a long wrench. Her
blood-drenched sword will not deter
her drummed up horde to pester me.
A stabbing tour: a feast to see!

She flaunts her lust to hurl me blind,
wanting to carry me beyond.
The old bitch pants away. Behind
the panting horde, with her up front.

She outpants it. As she does me.
Plays pathetic spells ne’er to be.
The banner proudly swells on
preparing a vengeful affront,

for what? For her earsplitting squall?
No one for her lust to clutch?
Abundant is her bitter gall.
Bitches hate bitches this much.

The watch prods a conceited cusp.
If only for fair play – just once!
Hysterically howls the wind.
In her throat the dust.

The watch for revenge is tough.
It breaks up the goal-event; bluff!
The match is called off.
She hurls down. Enraged beast!
Matter is thin, swig is short.
Thirst for revenge is her gloat.

Her revenge has more to see.
She has had it to a tee.
Breaks down and lets it be.

Sharpening her caustic sting,
its poison spills on my skin.
Sap for revenge flows,

penetrates deeply, as summer into fall.
Illicitly lodges where no one should stall.

Hangs on my neck: not for her path.
Her tongue daggers itself to death.

Drags it in circles. Lassoes me
’round. – Drums up her clan.

Ticking away, the old bitch is.
Catch me she will, where’er I am.

(Translated by Katarina Peters, finishing touches by Kinga Fabó)

Charms, discounted

Pungent, yellow – seven rays.
Hits the eyes.
Piercing stench. It is being sterilized.

„Act natural!” Secondhand clothes
by the kilo.
Across the Chinese market and below

led by the coloured smell of poverty.
The rubber. A condom failure.
Use, toss, and let there be

heady odorous-orgy.
Wealth – is in unconscious pleasure.
Holding out another measure.

A flashy skirt – perhaps. But as the eye
runs down the thighs it’s clear,
my tights were bought last year.

A ladder in the fabric. As though
it were the brand. A streak remains,
a stitch unravelled by your gaze.

(Translated by Owen Good, finishing touches by Kinga Fabó)

Five Haikus

Ripens sweet fragrance,       
makes its fruits grow and gain weight -
as the Moon’s mask grows.

I’m forced on the shore
by brackets of holidays:
the world in-between.

Moon’s rising upwards,
I can’t follow it that high:
drags its solitude.

Neither swaggering,
nor in all submissiveness,
though it’s uncommon.

It’s throwing fake pearls
- just a fountain not a spring -
tears being stamped out.

(Translated by Katalin  N. Ullrich)

[Kinga Fabó]


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