#2387 -- diasporic

 

2387

7.194

15.vii.26

diasporic

jetlag zombie robots in Budapest

 

we are the children of ghosts

 

they never came back

 

the old pengő is useless these days

 

perhaps they once had wishes

we will never know now

we set out with a map in our heads

on the phone, a back pocket paper map

print too small

 

who were they to this

 

we are the children of ghosts

come back for more

 

live on a fold between districts – Kiraly Utca

downstairs gluten free, attitude

 

one way’s as good as another

 

to the countryside and hock the lot!

 

there are ways to survive

 

streets lead off like drunks

but we’re alright

 

follow a tour leader’s flag

 

we could end up in any language

perhaps one not yet spoken

 

our children will of course be ghosts

marry a ghost and that’s what you get

 

this is all part of the game

 

the way they throw these streets together

give us perfume samples in the mall

 

you can’t have too many shoes!

 

from all over the world, they feed

we receive

it’s this to which we conform

 

it’s with every footfall

set in cement for a sky

 

we are the children of ghosts

dodged one bullet

but there was a next

years passed

there was the petal fall

the unleafing

no further snow

 

it’s like we weren’t quite dead enough

had to risk all again

to be lost

to go on

just to pass by windows

and see no reflection

it’s all so long ago

 

I cannot remember building all this

 

everything done so we wouldn’t know

that was the best thing then

 

these are ways of another time

home by Bolt if we can’t find a way

they say streets lead to the future too

 

but it’s always the old wars

the pretending

close your eyes

and we’re coming now

know where you’re hiding

 

they’re getting away with it again

 

and we’re ghosts, after all

 

it’s all night to be here forgetting

 

buildings will always remember us

 

have to write a way out

what can we say

when no one will hear?

 

we’re ghosts, we’re mute

we’ll float by, unseen

 

bullets stray, there are little brass plaques

trapdoors to our insect past

 

the wall is a floor is the ground

is the street

 

we are the undead

have no idea of down or up

 

we’d be an embarrassment if they knew

 

we are the children of ghosts

 

we are here

 

nothing can cure us of time