BUDAPEST

Buda.

Pest.

Budapest.

On the one side is Buda.

On the other is Pest.

On both sides of the river lies Budapest.

Both sides of the Danube, its bridges parade rest,

Both sides of the city of Budapest.

I climbed Gellert Hill to the Citadella

And bought communist trinkets.

And took in the city’s Freedom Monument, Socialist-Realist.

I got there before Madonna, NATO, or Michael Jackson.

But not before the Colonel’s arrival: Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Bishop Gellert

Converted the masses to Christianity.

But there’s no statues for the bishops today

who play chess with the peasentry.

I stalked that blessed city

The whole damn day

No one gave me shit.

But at night, streetwalking pickpockets

Bust your balls in Budapest.

Like flies over meat left out in a pantry to age to grey.

Like stumbling cats who’ve been cooped-up

For too long inside a cage.

Oh, Budapest girl

With your Budapest breasts

I want to suckle in your city of artists.

And come away nourished by

The State Gallery’s paintings inside.

The greatest artists Europe agrees

To dismiss so casually.

Da-Da, Zsa Zsa

Cupola churches

Secret Police.

An old lady gave me

A kiss on both cheeks goodbye.

To liberating heroes from a grateful Hungarian people.

Budapest-style.

Buda.

Pest.

Budapest.

© Gregory Ego