Ferenc L. Hyross









it’s night in budapest.

dots not much blacker than the darkness,

flies on the wall.

the cradle-noise from the traffic outside

seeps through the bricks and wallpaper.

machines wrestle, they crease,

break the tar-body of the city nocturnal.

that’s the way blacktop-hearts beat,

like in a nest, it’s buzzed around

by wires and nerves. I can feel the voltage

of this womb on my skin.

I drank up all the broken windshields,

instead of teeth

the pearl shards from my fathers car.


then only the trees, only the forest.

the grand metaphor we moved next to,

the start of fear.

death in planks, the pines creaking

every night.

and it sounds like it’s not even

coming from the outside.




all of the dogs


I’m looking for unknown streets, I’m letting you give up. I’m afraid that sooner or later we arrive back home or that we find something we really should have been looking for. all the runaway dogs. because I am all those dogs you lost. I’m wandering around somewhere, on a city-like industrial plant. I lie in the tar-blotched sunshine, like a reptile, nude, and absorb all those flyers you prayed for me. I’m someone else’s dog, but thanks for thinking about me. the grass between the tracks, the sunk-in asphalt under the wagons, these streets are like this. detours, if you’re not planning to get anywhere. once I saw a few men burn a woman alive. things like that happen around here. I lay next to her, a tar stain, and we rested for a while, like lizards in the sun.











Ferenc L. Hyross is a Hungarian poet of the younger generation. His works have been featured in a number of Hungarian literary magazines and recently he published his first book of poems.

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