Lazlo Aranyi

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary.

Earlier books: (szellem)válaszok, A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya .

New: Kiterített rókabőr. 

English poems published: Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine, Scum Gentry Magazine, Pussy Magic, The Zen Space, Crêpe & Penn, Briars Lit, Acclamation Point, Truly U, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Lots of Light Literary Foundation, Honey Mag, Theta Wave, Re-side, Cape Magazine, Neuro Logical, The Daily Drunk Mag, Unpublishable Zine, Melbourne Culture Corner, Beir Bua Journal, Crown & Pen, Dead Fern Press, Coven Poetry Journal, Journal of Erato, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillover Magazine, Punk Noir, All Ears (India), Utsanga (Italy), Postscript Magazine (United Arab Emirates), The International Zine Project (France), Swala Tribe Magazine (Rwanda). Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.

Moon

(Tarot, Major Arcane XVIII.)


… search, search, Plague buddy! The intoxication of 
                     creativity is ecstatic,
              he was waiting for the Dionysian desire.
       But later he shrunk to the size of a worm
                     and sunk paralyzed
among shattering-moldering caricatures 
deep in the tyrannical water.
Our vision is the legend of blindness.
              Dead mimics life. What is perceptible
       is a mere plastic delusion.

The moon is stumbling rootlessness.
The moon becomes a homogeneous, chewed root.
                                          Hole before me, hole after me,
                                          Plague buddy, search, search…


       The tiny light source steps out of its staggering circle, 
              lingers on a smooth, waxy
mortal remain, stretches the chilled, fatty thighs,
eagerly looking for the gates of fertility. 
              And then he unexpectedly swallows 
                            which has already started to rot,
our life thus becomes one with death.

The tunnel leading to the deliquescent womb comes to life again 
from the squirting hot lava.


       He who was born by tyranny is infected. Sooner or later
              he turns from persecuted to persecutor.
Just as Hypatia was lynched by the enraged
                     Christ-believing mob of Alexandria.

Hole before me, hole after me,
Plague buddy, search, search… Search!

Vlad, the Impaler marched towards Brașov,
                     you wouldn't be any different, would you,
       "a new genius" from the Carpathians?
       The burning disgrace of every revolution is "Wille zur Macht":
who chases away the president, der führer, the usurers of banks,
       to take their place
              who kills oppressors 
while preserving the structures of tyranny,
       is not a freedom fighter, but a wretched criminal…



(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

Crawling Chaos

My writing career began, 
                     like most of my peers’. 
              With prescriptive, careful dance steps. 
       (It’d be funky to march among them now... Attila József 
and Kossuth are on their badges.) Those who adapt must come
              to a reasonable compromise, 
                            to a "separate peace" that they hate;
 
they lay low, they are orderly with law-abiding behavior, 
if that's what their interest demands. 
       The subject waits until they run out 
              from the upper rungs of the hierarchy. 
I’ve always been an anarchist, rejecting "authoritarianism", 
       I don't think any man is above me... 
Friction, conflict and confrontation abounded.
From the beginning... 

At times it proved to be that I’m quite unstable and vulnerable. 
The silent, cool, fish-like Nyarlethotep (the Crawling Chaos) keep staring at me
from behind the piled up, rusty 
       tin roofs. A little further away.

St. John the Baptist is a striding, malleable ghost similar to
what he is waving: a fly-flap made of human skin. 
The appointed gorge had swallowed me many times, 
       but the triumphant resurrection has arrived every time.
              The aligned glanders has avoided me. 
I didn’t become part of the whole. 
       I remain outside the constricting, circular 
squeeze of every limitation, 
       where no one has gone before me 
on the guerrilla trails of the fringe.

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