Adriána Kóbor

from Cléverre




You might ignore bread — in the sense of Anna O.
— when bread was missing, you only ate bread —
and discern the swarming bees restricted to
a tightrope. You may not feel the smell of
burnt pudding. No one, when that no one is not t-
here) no one miss—ing; you may be in love with:
O. Anna! O. o. O., believing: the universe is aloaf.








Wash your hands — let Befana bring you Ol' friends,
behead Judith, may your self be beheaded while
drunk (enter your camp, enter 'the camp').
While he was youn' he only thought:

The catalytic is only a moment of Love's rehearsals,
constraint, revival, intimacy and all hands on 'n
off me. Stay in your prudence, Likely Touch,
behance, cut my mind into graphs and photos. He. 













He (being funny): 'A glass of raspberry juice.'
I: What else?
He: 'A gun to shoot people dead.'
I: You didn't dream it? 
1895 L.H. and his father, Sigmund Freud
O.F. (==°oOld Photo, "extra versie" 1998)













The notes: off-scale. You: my symphonies,
belated pleasure of a belated Narcissus
that withers. Daffodils. Corpus Christi.
A paintig I leave behind. Twitter.

What is next is not a "new year anew"
that ululates. A ukulele, a winter.
Reise. A threesome. The nails
predict a renaissance. 










ALOAF  




 
 



HENCE
S-layers (meat bag) Meetings — /bɪˈhɛst/
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
Be! "And she put it in her bag of meat." /hʌɪt/



"WEGEN DEM PFERDE"
L.H./S.F. 2023, 2016
















BELATE






AVARIATION
Be incredulous. Fame or fake have often the same connotation
if you count the followers. Rewatch Antichrist. Take heed:
to be anachronistic "as fuck!", whenever you can.
But please don't fake it… We must speak in clear terms:

So the writer ("thinks"), she was sailing from the National
Library of Scotland to the Isle of Skye for an in-situ,
in as much as the writer thinks ("to art is").
The outdoor swimmer didn't think to become an "influencer",

so called, that is: 'is', doing all other things than swimming. I
must unfollow my own words, because whatever the fuck
"we" do, depending on the deepeningly clear local humor —
of course you will fake it for the money! So that

the vortex will suck you in ("because you let it"). What does
a tender heart think, or a tenderloin taste like? Let's go
back to the caves, to learn something. Except Jesus,
Christ has resurrected. There is a big business

going on out there. And you are not like it.



ASUMASUNDER
Well, my Bubbles and Hubbles and unbiblical stances of original sin: Cheers!
The first day of the year, almost over, and the newth stands, unroaring.
In some delay, like always: a sum. I promised myself: anything but love
(the lies' neverend), additionally: that I won't send him verses.

The universe begets the new: a standstill is there
to become absolute.

This is not a poem.
 


UNTHOUGHT
To put you in the primary space (not within brackets). A jazzy newborn, within me,
breaking glasses like a fool. The speed: undiminished, soap like. "Were you real?",
my mind wouldn't commit the theft. On a stage: A kiss. A gas station and a riff.
Your hands touching the snares of my lonely nowheres. I am touching your voice,

run off with it! Inside its den a small creature builds, with scrapings from scratch,
the new beholder. The beauty of Beauty that it is ever-changing. A small town,
a star, under the same sky, I wish upon. You, as never me. But newer. As if you had
known her, her density inside a nostalgic stance…:  you, left untouched.



STARSMART
Addictive beauty — what does
live beside the fierce fire
of sweetness. The dry
bbubbles celebrate
Hubble, the opium eater and

May, we all unpretend
the Dyonisian edge;
(the girl fell head front
on the rails — she f-Elle) and t-

He the empty space of the
cribbed mind, Gliding 'n
shimmering as Soap, jum-
ping the double-D

ouch, as the Dutchess
was yelling: doucement!,
the dust fell into pieces.



FRAGMENTS OF
I see, it's time for a smoke (in the lack of a kiss).

"hogy New York, New York, mi a faszról van itt szó, már bocsánat" Ujj Zsuzsi
"that 'New York, New York, what a fuck are we talking about, for God's sake"



THE NYMPH

the cubs' feet reverberate on the kitchen towel
Charlot Perkins Gilman a chariot's smile
a golf club's cuddling young players of
profit prohibited to touch knife and
the skirts' sharp edges cut their literal and non-
literal veins as they clutter in the gutter
their home well fed

Departicipation reciprocated. "a börleszk/elévülhetetlen szabályai szerint." Petri Gyögy
Kölcsönösen részlevétlen. "according to the unchanging rules of the burlesque" Gy. P.

SACHER

Sacher. Dix und Dichtum. Mädchen. Neubau. Ausstellung. Homunculus. Umbilical cord. 
Bible. Waltz. Adam. Z. Frau. Schrift. Wachen. Wochenende. Shokolat. Biscuit. Buskruit. 
Dinamo. Matches. Ballpen. H-bomb. Schriftstellerin. Flugzeuge. Fahren. Gleich. Jedoch. 
Jedem. Zeit. Verungleicht. Geluk. Hysterie. Schoonheid. Hotel. Am schluss. Wieder. Nein. 
Wiederalleinung. Misschung. Bäbis. Sicherheitsnagel. Schedel. Über. Alternation. Latin. 
With. Senza. Kaum. Raum. Heiss. Zegel. Mitternacht. Jahreszeit. Vielleicht. Liebe. Boy. Fat. 
Fassung. Gonad. Retriever. Kupflung. Sieben.
118. 218. 312. Liberté. Brüder. Fleisch. Butcher. Zerren. Sache. Ribosome. Bitten. Süss. 
Seite. Reiter. Bisschen. Glauben. Sein. Kus. Hoed. Slijm. Boterdeeg. Hand. Borsten. Gevoel. 
Feiten. Im.



"simula tutto il cane" — Marco Giovenale	"simulate the entire dog" M. Giovenale
Caro Marco, grazie, lo controlleró presto.	"dear M, thanks, I'll check it soon" A.

I will keep my authenticity to fake. Another life. Nowhere to come.



PISSCSSEX

The Lion asleep, and Aquarius doesn't care
by which means we ought to travel in Pisces.
They've always found something deprecable
about me: being honest, pissing in a river, etc.

Z., where are you, were ye' without prejudice?
It's impossible to have encountered only one
human being as unpretentious as fuck,
pretentious in his deviation.

18:11:4, Hungary-Belgium-Italy. I have no clue
where people are free, or: if anyone is. So far,
it must be poetry, if nothing else is. Soon,
I promise, if not in a river, in a creek.


"We are almost done" (said she) — AK
"But we should invent a game." (she said)


"Total bullshit." Zack Pieper Here’s my quote:
“Art is what it isn’t” — Adriána Kóbor
 


FRAUD
Arrested development, development arrested.
Elopement, gallop, Furcht, frucht, sweetness.
ih-lohp-muhnt gal-uhp fʊrçt vrʏxt ˈswiːt.nəs
 "Cerebral anatomy does not need to wonder
why — anatomically speaking —

consciousness should be accommodated on
the surface of the brain, instead of being
safely lodged somewhere in the deepest
recesses of it." Sigmund Freud

sweet (adj.)

Old English swete "pleasing to the senses, mind or feelings; having a pleasant disposition," 
from Proto-Germanic *swotja- (source also of Old Saxon swoti, Old Frisian swet, Swedish 
söt, Danish sød, Middle Dutch soete, Dutch zoet, Old High German swuozi, German süß), 
from PIE root *swād- "sweet, pleasant" (Sanskrit svadus "sweet;" Greek hedys "sweet, 
pleasant, agreeable," hedone "pleasure;" Latin suavis "pleasant" (not especially of taste), 
suadere "to advise," properly "to make something pleasant to"). Words for "sweet" in Indo-
European languages typically are used for other sense as well and in general for "pleasing."

ULENT
Richer with another Sigmund Freud: "Beyond the Pleasure Principle". Dear Richard
of Richmond, suggestive, as it may be, we either become protozoa or poets — and by this I 
may not exclude the myriads of possibilities that disconnect us from
"REJOICE, REJOYCE, :CC". It is already a curious fact, the intrinsic death — the narcissistic 
libido for the object of (#theego). Own-goal by the owl in the bowl.



THE CLEARANCE

Posts appear and disappear like fresh snow on the window shield
#poetsappearanddisappear on the windowshield: the snow —
My Dearest, don't get me wrong... I don't want to be caught
while cheating on you with my beloved distance, on the window:
shields — poets appear and disappear. I am fresh like snow and
invisible like the distance, on the clearing the virgin snow, a doe,
do not, my Dearest, do not… "... the beauty and the relief —
'cause we have touched."



Yale Joel, Banana walking, 1951; Tomás Austin, Cabellos al viento de mujer con cabeza de frutilla art brut


It's like all over, don't you see it? The world,
with its magical new surprises and hurts —
no idea what she is saying (I am a never
to this one, so: usually I switch it off). Magic,
dragons, hate, surfaces, but also... F.P. — 
and the music breaks the "relative" silence.
Do we feel anything, at all, after the music?
I am. That is the only thing I perceive.
During: even so. The same hurt-curls
all over, the beauty and the relief —
'cause we have touched.



So, the length of your life will be
the length of your name,
neither to be pronounced.
In this void percieved,
not you, but the word —
and one signifier:
an orphan is an orphan,
line adopted, all before
this birth, after me
couldn't have been
unique. All that I must bear:
a name. It adapts better,
to a folder of oneliners.



NOLAN



I am a trainee of my desire: it unloads whereas
I can hardly utter a sound. A toe whistles:
I love you-s, my light duty, a wild excuse
for abuse. These shapes are hardly ever
different.

When you speak, something dissolves.
Diluted in the unheld and upheld change,
you watch me pack. Everything goes black,
except hope. Hope is feigned. The breaklines are

like belts on the coastline. They unpretend. A seeshell
explains that the pearl is itching dirt inside its stomach.
A fortune explodes inside the sails. 

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

 
 

previous page     contents     next page