Budapest

My first poem, written at 5 in the morning having stayed up drinking all night with a swedish girl I met caving.

Budapest,
why do your bars close early,
why do you have muscle on the metro,
why do you have a blues bar that doesn't play music,
crazy locals with 50 yard killer stares, trippy teahouses,
girls in bars selling carrots, fight or eat Mary Jane.

Budapest,
why are you full of Americans on spring break, red blood,
red blood, countless stupid things to be done,
why do you have scary transylvanians,
drinking from the bloody cup,
hunting drunk Germans with dark face and darker intentions.

Budapest,
why do your skies open and your winds rip,
covering the town, erasing the trail of revelry,
of a chance encounter,
of a stolen kiss,
of a last embrace,
of the shared beauty and knowing of the midnight hour with a blanket of snow.

Budapest,
why do you give then take,
wrought then break,
leave me in the light of morning with a cold dawning and a painful head,
knowing that she's not here,
that she's in the air,
in the the sky,
on her way back to Dr Gonzo, Scooby Doo, Schnapps, Europop, swearing parrots, Malmo FF and sleep.

Budapest, why do your bars close so early?