Nem élhetek, se nem pusztulnak tovább
(I CANNOT LIVE NOR DIE ANY LONGER)

For Miklós Radnóti

I build this
bridge of words
so that I can

walk back over time
and take
your hand

you to me
this man
made only of words

talking out of a book
and I only able
to touch you

with these
used words
of mine

I clasp your hand
in mine
call you friend

*

Miklós Radnóti, the Hungarian poet, was shot by guards after a forced march from a Serbian labour camp in 1944 and thrown into a mass grave. When his body was later exhumed, a notebook of poems was found sewn into his clothing so even from beyond this lonely grave his words insisted on living.

"Don't walk past me, friend. Yell, and I'll stand up again!"

I reach out my hand made of words and touch your words that still make you a man.

Sitting at a table in a pub with some other people who look really upset, nay
   aghast at something I've just said
And I have this ventriloquist's Dummy on my
   knee
His nose is very red as are his ears, even his
   cheeks have a reddish tint
And he has this crazy wild look on his face
And he's also wearing this funny disjointed jacket which has all these very
   flamboyant colours on it
Just like the colours of all the Bottles of
   Spirits hanging over at the Bar

And I'm there and I'm pointing at the Dummy
   explaining to the other people
"It wasn't me, it was just the Drink talking!".

I am dumb
with wonder, that I'm
not torn asunder, that my brain and body don't burst, under the
torment of the demon that lives in me.
He longs to be free, struggling clawing, scratching to be released, shrieking at me to write the words that reside inside.
I tried hard to drown him with ***** and Guinness Stout, but he learned to swim.

So once again, we toast the night alone by candlelight, as I read Sylvia Plath while he takes a bath in dark Irish beer. He knows that writing's fantastic, *******, electric, and we *** together as he whispers me sweet prose while doing the back float in a sea of Absolut.
I'm destitute, but he doesn't care, just as long as I share his seed that spills from my quill.
And so, I hear is shrill voice in the middle of the night, screaming, screeching, write *******,
write.