Horváth Eve - Privát idegenvezetés

"in every summer so fragile, the sky pours ice and the window through which I look at you I don't know where to start trusting"If I read the law correctly, how to love, this book is already parked in the forbidden. It is slowly covered by Santa's bags. Horváth really looks at the world through a sieve - he writes poetry as if he were taking serial shots with a hacked AK 47, in black, for the crime scene section of a punk cop magazine. No wonder: he knows that he "got extra" etc. (By the way, specifically 1 miracle.) If "Kostolányi is our brother", then Eve Horváth is the niece of JA, but without the uncle's pathological compulsion to conform. It pretty much completely sucks at so-called poetry. " Yellow grass blooms in an iron shoe." If you find a better picture than this, delete it. He filters through his teeth what would come out of him. Fiction is zeroed out: he lives near the railway. Like the grossest extra virgin. Brutal, cold-pressed hardcore on unsalted bread. The whole thousand-year-old tree is there in a single drop, it will tear your throat apart. This can really only be produced under inexhaustible pressure. Point, like a prospective detainee, a question mark. To live - that's all. Every line is an ominous, belated doom that you drunkenly blurt out at dawn at non-stop Chinese from the dryly gentle lies of fortune cookies. (Gábor Németh)

Kalligram Publishing House
Poem
135 pages
Binding: tabbed, cardboard
ISBN: 9789634682790
Author: Eve Horváth
Release year: 2022