Budapest Blues


It’s Sunday and I’m in the most beautiful city in the world.

Cigarette butts crushed into broken tiles.

At my feet is another death, in the street,

Broken buildings and hollow dreams.

I’m in her arms like a stillborn child.

Feeling nothing, it seems,

But old.




The west wind caresses

Like a lover’s touch

It undresses.

Gentle exploration

Finding hollows

Tugging hair

Awakening senses.

Sensated, aware

The Goddess smiles

She knows that

The wind flies free

And his ardour wanes

When sun meets sea.