Adriána Kóbor


from Cléverre

LAVARCHAM [sinking into sadness again.] I'm in dread so they were right saying she'd bring destruction on the world, for it's a poor thing when you see a settled man putting the love he has for a young child, and the love he has for a full woman, on a girl the like of her; and it's a poor thing, Conchubor, to see a High King, the way you are this day, prying after her needles and numbering her lines of thread.

[in the tone of the earlier talk.] "I am after telling her one time and another, but I'd do so as well speaking to a lamb of ten weeks and it racing the hills… It's not the dread of death or troubles that would tame her like.

from Deirdre of the Sorrows by John Millington Synge

PREDILECTURE

This mask is not yours, though you are putting up with a white so hoarse,
no moment of life to blame, on the not-meant lie, life consists of. A
lone sheet a-hare, cider-manic sugary troops in the kitchen — where
the Xmas tree resists — your troops as pre-worried inches worm
of a possible frame of art that glows ahead — neither of cement
nor of se-diment (I care), but juxtaposed with the just-cause,
a wee pose of fitness to find the wit, the wherewithal of
a spouse, that like current in the wire, loses her specimen's grades — 
ingrate and mondaine as the lichens in the mouth of a moose — as
birth can choose not a better moment than the now, and no woman
can be lonely as one childless (the TV-screen falls apart in pixels,
the varnish cracks on the face like the blouse gets stripped from the s-
houlders of a shell, a tell-tale of a crustacean buried under white clay,
the alarm clock on snooze and the holidays in a Wigwam (…)
Svålbard with a moustache and a pumpkin a week old,
between the plants which could never bear a weight such. Wash it off to
take contrast, to lavish it on some mistress or mister from now till noon.



HOW LAVOISIER HAD LEFT THE PERIODIC SYSTEM
a.k.a. the Order Posthumus a là Dmitri Mendeleev

silicium orders your lips whitened by the cold should kiss a White Elephant's thread, Emilia, the whirlwind of the multilinguistic system, 'n for that matter: the best radio maker, A. — "en het is geschiedt". I'm t…..ripping yourmy "no idea what this culture will need to go through to affect your throat, Torah…!". Torah, our fav- ou-rite and derelict as a tort of a delict: a blues singer, who ended up as a science-fiction B-m- ovie actress, redressed within the thermic yet relativistic relationship of these captured pro- tons — in a cage in, a cage in a cage, "because I deeply, very deeply, very strongly about it". St- rongly…, my cohort, my perception, my blue highlighted word, "without saying you ever l- oved her, you were already deeply in love with her 'essent'. She is not an example to children 'n the video you can't add, "it is a channel me- ant for children" so you swing along, you swing A-long and never getting married tells some- thing about your soul AC — both last names will coincide in this merry incident "it is so hard to be deeply"; "the gap was that" "eyes do not discern just shine" your lips widening so that love isn't about love so that literature isn't about literature so that this poem isn't a poem and this poem isn't about me or, for the better: I am not about me, either An "H" to D.K.*

silicium orders your lips whitened by the cold should kiss a White Elephant's thread, Emilia, the whirlwind of the multilinguistic system, 'n for that matter: the best radiomaker, A. — "en het is geschiedt". I'm t…..ripping yourmy "no idea what this culture will need to go through to affect your throat, Torah…!". Torah, our fav- ou-rite and derelict as a tort of a delict: a blues singer, who ended up as a science-fiction B-m- ovie actress, redressed within the thermic yet relativistic relationship of these captured pro- tons — in a cage in, a cage in a cage, "because I deeply, very deeply, very strongly about it". St- rongly…, my cohort, my perception, my blue highlighted word, "without saying you ever l- oved her, you were already deeply in love with her 'essent'. She is not an example to children 'n the video you can't add, "it is a channel me- ant for children" so you swing along, you swing A-long and never getting married tells some- thing about your soul AC — both last names will coincide in this merry incident "it is so hard to be deeply"; "the gap was that" "eyes do not discern just shine" your lips widening so that love isn't about love so that literature isn't about literature so that this poem isn't a poem and this poem isn't about me or, for the better: I am not about me, either An "H" to D.K.*

THE BLACK CAT

The black cat in the window — has no idea about the optimization of the white power project —
some talk powder in the nose before the talk show is aired — air red mosquitos in the sunset,
sunbathing till the prior proprietary division discerns the trees in the forest of distress;
sunbathing till all the wet leaves of grass let you leave before you take a midwinter bath
in the minimalistic but quantitatively significant drops of dew fixated
through the high-humidity circumstances of the day. Drops of dawn:
down your expectations; there is Japanese jazz in the earphones,
do not hear phones; do not discern message —
the moment when most men could enjoy a mass-age
mass media mess-age — your words turn out how you have always wanted in this language,
or in another). Melting confusion, as if after a concussion. The transrelational, transnational
and translational laws will have an apparent effect on your mood — no interpretation, if not:
improvisation, no exit (who would want to read a web of that which isn't the worldwide)
even the prostitutes must have a global reach these days and better advertisements —
in the meanwhile: Japanese jazz in the earphones,
black cat in the meeauwindew on the winchester,
it may as well be its post adoptation, adaptation name: Chester,
the black cat in the white power project with talk powder on its nose
drawing the framework against anti-immigrant rhetoric, black & latino/a populations with already
the problematic gender latinization of the sexes (the black cat in the window may not have
sexual or other relationships with all the black cats of the neighborhood —
I have no idea whether it is a she-cat or a he-cat, catcalling the day, catcall!
this day on me, if you are a male, without the blackmailing of this post-
pre-during-war-era and epoch, epoche,
three dreadful reading experiences before, and two d-read-Locke-edit
ex-Hume-perimentations on the full-blown emptiness. I am still heavily
biased in the matter of Love,
black cat in the window, black
'in the window, cat, black in window, black window, window-black cat lacks cat, the cat windows
the blackness, windowy-shadowy backthoughts on progress,
the black-humid and monstrous forest in The Origin of the World — l'Origine du monde —
in which Courbet bets
on the unshamed — dark chunks of sandalwood on the curb, Santalum paniculatum,
part of the tufted projects' libido, an upheaval above the mashed potato as I inform you:
I am willing to cheat on you with a conquerer —
and how the son of a Caesar can't endure the matter of cheating while eating, especially:
since my livelihood in the Cartesian coordinate system is fixed in his enormous Godhead —
a dark complexion beating my otherwise basal Greek vase's alabaster emptiness…
Love, as it had become: phases, no constant in the phrases, the instinctive
fluctuations of appeasement and honor, red and black on a light switch tapering off
the light — before outlived and well-read in the evolutionary concoction tale of a Bible or:
the missing elements in the posthumuous enduring order of chaos of Mendeleev.
Pure chemistry, "when  my name goes missing and how Lavoisier had left
the periodic system" — the odd periodic systems,
the oddities in a black hole, or: the utter-love
relationships in space, your telescope, "spazzoliamo via
le stelle", the origin of this chaos seen in the eyes of the cat, the black cat in the window,
the Greek vase's base-alabaster emptiness, in your eyes cathod-rays twisting a man hunt
for Man Ray — in the local grocery store for the last remaining golden tear
in which a Golden retriever finds the last survivals of the Golgota
fishing out the goggles of Kalugin,
when I realize:
"Kalugin was folded in half and they threw him out like trash". Derrida's Memoirs of the Blind:
The Self-Portrait and Other Ruins resting on the nightstand, your hand, resting
on my back, as I let my hands rest on the back cover of these books
earning me no fame but: the understanding of rubbish. Or:
that there are two forks and two knives and two plates,
without an inflamed eye, I can see you among the candles burning — no moon,
the moon at 97,8% illuminated from the deflection of the sidewalks; a zebra, or
a Zebu (?) that finds its path
on the pedestrian crossing —  een Kaapse ezel zo schaars hier als een schaar in het schaamhaar,
zo donker is de nacht — fallen from the Pillars of Ashoka.

The black cat in the window, as the perfect example of the Indo-European languages, the downlook of
a partiarch on its offspring, with a jump rope set to start a new life where the files are filled with
the cables off the hook — in the nook of my perversities a monumental f-reed-o-m instruments
of barbarian revenues in the Southern spring sweating around the wormholes —
in the Australian desert — the eye is a rock that falls out of
the black cat sitting in the window,
the black cat sitting in the window
present continuous, picture perfect
in the window the sitting black cat
in the black window the sitting cat
cat blacksitting the window in the catsitting the window black the in — this observation of a phase,
the matter's fading momentum, the obliteration of our spacetime presence in the black snow,
dew drops, the silicium look of your glimpse, a long-play flustering a future photograph's click,
a clutch, the freedom in the velocity, the freedom in the slowness — in-growth grain,
a Dutch striped Tulip on the sidetable,
a striped Dutch tulip on the tableside (…) I wonder off
in the conqueror's smile and the snowflakes formed from the swallowed-back passion I can't
leave untouched (in my photographic memory I walk on virgin snow along with the penguins —
the male in the landscape: both natural and unnatural) the immediacy of the evolution's
myriads of years of creation — sharing the feet with the boots, the boots with the snow —
Helen hunts Jackson in her both hands: magical mystery, the bold hysteria of her thoughtful
manifestation, a reality hard as in the kitchen, on the kitchen floor a knife falls and human
excitability — the wine so irresponsibly whining and proudly singing of an anger so proud
to be the anchor sign of her dire ire and the desire to smile,
so that lips won't limit themselves but stretch between
the two coasts of her cheeks in the vivid adventure of
ingenious inland inlets, the mandibles — the indogenious almond particles of a God — for now it will
be the cluster of vulcanos that bursts within their Southern temperament by birth — "Speak now
and speak into the hallowed dome. What do you hear? What does the sky reply?"
Sagan's essay on Twitter.
It isn't romantic, as it ceased to be the question: "Space, Time, and the Poet" ca. 1950,
then: a performance  for Perec — the poet meticulously but distractedly and hesitatingly washing her hands
above a bathroom sink, then she wets her face
(lucky she, not in the pantry shop or: a pharmacy called Bell's Drug Store, the advertisement
on the bottom  of the page) while aliens from Paris are landing on the windowsill of
the blinded bathroom window, the Venetian Blinds, but not in Venice —
the poverty line inside your hand
as he travels off-faith, off-line, off-
(…) "it resembles a romance that
I could spend my fortune on this hospital visit in Florance" — he shakes his legs as dysfunctional(s)
(it were the nuns who picked him up from the streets, telling: "Good Lord, bless the Redheads,
but the redhead — as we know it from Kharms —, did neither have a head, nor he had
red hair, nor a stomach — this verse, this eternit! block of verse could have been cut
by the carbon particles of emission (your missions) — my Dirty Icebreaker's complaint as it
makes its way through the whining ice sheets, the crackling force of crude oil burning against
different states of frozen water — toggle me into the warm potholes, instead,
where the insect-heavy air is my only burden from society!

The tempered glass of our knowledge breaks tomorrow: the sailors will wipe
their sleepless eyes before the dawn cracks under the eiderdown I break like the gra-
vitational graves, wave-like waxing light, a spouse hanging on a distant pylon,
nevertheless: the pointless Poincaré ponies in the fields, pain carré, old
jerking off captains above the jerky,
one coughing full moon…

These sediments of late-night collapse, the cockatoos are sending their greetings from
Krakatoa and Maribor, at the end of the Oxford English DJ-eography, jeopardized,
wild and too late, with the emphasis to become my statue of liberty. An ideal
fluorescing in the dark ebbing bays, a complex bed-ridden good riddance
that always worsens to worse than and depending on the how.

Being interrogated by the full sun, faithful to the light of the mirror, the moon and
the planetary settlements and the lunar sediments chalkingly stalking
memories of your presence longer ago than you could recall anything at all —
of me, as well (of me: as well). I am a monad, a monozygote, a mitochondrium,
a Golgi apparatus dissolving above the Bunsen burner on a heat-resistant plate).

The library was our stage, but now it is empty; shelf lives lying as the truth laid bare
by a single power outage — with us two. The blackbird is the most curious
observer of our centuries, sentinels of senturies. All zen lost for those dying around
on islands like Rhodes. You look at me — so that the black cat's blackness is

the blackness to the exact grade, its contrast, its saturation
(your contrast, my saturation — my contrast, your saturation).

the black cat sitting in the window is a mirror: all zen lost — the zen for all lost —
the black cat is sitting in the mirror now with split eyes (your eyes sitting on me,
looking at me as if you were a past of your future, as your past of your future
I could paste) the black cat in the mirror is the vulnerable change in my alphabet —

the mimetic instrument in the kinetic aspect of longing in the view of home cinema, of drone
cinema, the black cat is our future — Depression Descending the Stairs, Nude descending
in the Stairs Depressed — Nothing New in the Black Cat, Nothing New in the Nude,
but Her Body/…"His Body" Nothing new in the next, but: "being the next" —

the satisfactory feeling as you crawl inside my conscious, the satisfactory guilt
as I crawl into your shame, your satisfactory shame as I crawl into your guilt —
you are just as mysterious as the centuries that look at me, at the extinct animal
(your glimpse that looks at me from the future: I am the extinct animal).

He used to be my sentiment — but never moved —
The Black Cat in the Window, sitting — and the raincoat
has become the parallel wisdom of this land, the constant puddles,
eyes like public toilets, the generosity of the sidewalk, the mistakes… one after one, one after another —

as we have lost count and did not know what it meant "the other".
My body hiding in his body as if in a shrine, in a mausoleum or a simple tomb with the thumb up!
I can't count nor name the times I have been there, here, waiting, here waiting, to here, that
the key would turn into the right keyhole, as the tune falls into the right tune, while we break on
the holy instrument —
it is not the language that
was born into us in the fjords, Björk is bluffing.
All the same: a witch's heart burns in the hearth —
nothing new, your heartbeat reaches me over all the continents,
feeble hearing, the crusades, the monuments, fine thinkers, the fake drama's falling as drachmas
from the queen's card, and all the pokery parties you have won, not risking, but selling my skin, or:
not even touching me — in the distance, as it might always be you at the pinball machine waiting for
…
your daughter
…
to win all the parties —

I miss you but I do not even know you; this epoch in the epoche
is a toilet mirror, made-up sentiments are the make-up, no,
worse: there is nowhere to feign now, and at home you won't be
capable —
through the cathode rays your face shining through each
uninteresting shallow pixel — this is the point:
knowing someone without knowing,
touching someone without touching,
as I know the smell of ice and I won't ever forget —
forgeries so old, they call them love, stills, peace and pre-delict-ion.

What leaves this country, is nothing.
What comes back to it, is hanged.

"‘This is the final frontier of crow territory,
Please leave a message after the caw.’

Azita Ghahreman






Tongloze dagen op Twitter. Which tiny creatures original sound had been banalized — you are
the telephone wire along the poles. No transmission. Although connection established,
somewhere around 43,000 years B.C. — whereby Christ is irrelevant, and me:
34 million years ago — 
the last living Cetacean.


*@@*@@*@@*@@*@@*@@*


when you don't want him to end
this recidivious long journey
you want nothing to add
these oxymorons of time
and space — furthering
in the funnel of Minkowski —
she passes me by in a spaceship
going half the speed of light in
the positive x direction relative to me
and with the time equal to 0 it is exactly
where she is at — my position — the slant

puce-chique

Tunga penetrans 1,2, ou Sarcopsylla penetrans (gr. σαρκός sarkos, chair ; ψύλλα psúlla, puce ; lat. penetrans, pénétrant) est une espèce de petites puces tropicales, plus connue sous le nom vulgaire de « puce chique ». La pénétration dans l'épiderme humain de femelles fécondées de Tunga penetrans provoque la tungose, ou sarcopsyllose.

La puce chique est un arthropode parasite que l'on rencontre dans les zones tropicales, en particulier en Amérique du Sud (ex. : Guyane), aux Antilles, en Afrique et à Madagascar. Longue d'un millimètre, la puce-chique est la plus petite puce connue.

To see drinking primates on the pavement: change name to: monkeys — ma clé de verre cléver



Adriána Kóbor (b. Hungary, 1988), is a (visual) poet, multimedia artist active in the Netherlands and Belgium from 2006 till 2018; in Italy from 2018 till 2023. Her poems aim to explore and extend the boundaries of language. The major part of her work is written in English, though she creates in other languages, as well — Dutch, Hungarian, Italian, etc. Her published works include prose and poetry, visual works, collage, (analog) photographs, and various collaborations with other visual artists. Some of her manuscripts are already in book form; others are waiting to be pulled through the press.
https://adrianakobor.wixsite.com/poet

 
 

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