Gabor G Gyukics
Gabor G Gyukics (b. 1958) is a Hungarian-American poet, jazz poet, literary translator born in Budapest. He is the author of 11 books of original poetry, 6 in Hungarian, 2 in English, 1 in Arabic, 1 in Bulgarian, 1 in Czech and 16 books of translations including A Transparent Lion, selected poetry of Attila József and Swimming in the Ground: Contemporary Hungarian Poetry (in English, both with co-translator Michael Castro) and an anthology of North American Indigenous poets in Hungarian titled Medvefelhő a város felett. He writes his poems in English (which is his second language) and Hungarian. His latest book in English is a hermit has no plural (Singing Bone Press, 2015). His latest book in Hungarian was published by Lector Press in May 2018. Photo by Sándor Gyapjas.
Can’t take it anymore. This distillate is too raw to me.
The beast wins out of beauty.
The scale goes off balance.
Let’s say: I’ll tell you. Let’s say: You’ll listen.
My dearest!
You congregator!
How should I use you?
Where am I in my body?
Without a body? I don’t know. Imaginary blue
like an imaginary sky.
They’re hanging in rich clusters.
He’d hide in one cluster, but
someone knows who he really is.
A few lap dances may fit in: I love it.
The way all these witches kill each other!
How jealous they are because of me!
Do I want life along with so many
conditions, me who is so defenseless.
My otherself stares before the mirror
and pushes through another domain:
(Sharon Stone swaps her legs.
She might catch up with me.)
Did I run ahead? How reckless.
she cajoles you to follow
the scent on the bodies
of every other women
do you recoil—on all?!
I am the stronger, the unprotected
Tough as a woman, austere.
Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
It’s not even hopeless.
Not vicious.
Serves the absence.
Delivers the unnecessary.
Yet both are men separately.
Ongoing magic. Broad topsyturviness.
Slow, merciless.
A new one is coming: almost perfect.
I swallow it.
Wandering tired lady aristocrats
Baronesses choked by their own shrivelled hair
Mannerism rococo Art Nouveau Baroque
Gothic laceneck serieses. Nothing but foolish
Young ladies.
Then came the odors.
The badly installed roots.
As corpus delicti.
On the operating-table.
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