Peycho Kanev

beginning

the poet drives his car on the 

Main Street
 
he stops on red signal

on the right

on the curb

there’s an old white bench

and on the bench

there’s a sign

The fear of God is the Beginning of Wisdom

and there is green signal again

and the poet drives

to the liquor store.

One Sun

now

in the WWW
 
I read a lot of the new good poets

like me

and I notice that in many of their 

poems

there are lines like:

“my wife told me that I drink too much”

or

“my girlfriend grins at me with absolute delight”

or even

“…while I pump my wife in the ass she falls asleep.”

now 

I want to confess that

I don’t have a wife or even a girlfriend

I don’t know anything about family life

but I want a girl so badly

so badly

like an addict his fix

like a crave for nicotine
 
but nothing happens 

and I just carry on.

maybe I’m not so good poet after

all. 

oh, my….

Sunday evening

I am watching movie

on the TV with my girl,

soon the commercials 

are on:

they tell me that Viagra is just

for me.

and that’s what I’m afraid

of.

my way under the rocks

and the roses are red

and my terror is something that crawls away 
 
maybe I read too many books

maybe I didn’t read enough

and some torn flower

is just dead love

and some dead flower gives the seed

to a new love

probably I can use my razor not only for shaving
 
probably the sun is about to set

and the black panther in the jungle is vicious 

and the black birds circle the wounded sky

there are some signs about my suffering 

that I can’t ignore 

that I can’t ignore

certainly my life is about to begin again

certainly my life

my death.

sacred wind

the dark and stinking wind

blows through

my shattered window

I sit naked on the chair 

with a beer bottle in my hand

and let the wind on me 

my radio is broken

my life is torn

and my girl is somewhere in 

the deep black night

as the lovers love

as the flowers grow

as the junkies blow

I feel the wind.

and he rips my flesh

until I am only bones

and I am beautiful

again.

scream in the afternoon

the sun is high again
and it looks to me like enemy,
outside
in the hot street
an old lady stands by the curb
under the shadow of a tree
and she looks like my mama
and she looks like your mama
I ask my self where my luck is.
it has ran away like a river of sweat
in this hot summer afternoon
and the old woman is gone
and the sun is about to set
as I wait
as I shiver
thru the endless day,
and thru all the wasted loves 
I fell asleep again
and this poem become
silent for ever.

Lost

smoking weed at
12 in the night 

I am out of cigarettes 

we lie on the floor
in front of the blank TV
and outside we hear
some squeaky noises  

the moon is gone
behind the clouds
in the deep dark 

she stretch her hand
with the glass
and I give her another refill  

not long ago she tried to save me
from myself 

but 

I don’t love her anymore
but I don’t seem to have
the courage to tell her 

I drink some more
and go to the window
and I stare 

searching for something 

that is not
here.

my way under the rocks

and the roses are red
and my terror is something that crawls away
maybe I read too many books
maybe I didn’t read enough
and some torn flower
is just dead love
and some dead flower gives the seed
to a new love
probably I can use my razor not only for shaving
probably the sun is about to set
and the black panther in the jungle is vicious 
and the black birds circle the wounded sky
there are some signs about my suffering 
that I can’t ignore 
that I can’t ignore
certainly my life is about to begin again
certainly my life
my death. 

Faceless

born to be kissed
and born to be hated 
born to paint with fingers
born to pour glasses of red wine
born into the light
born into the darkness and 
the horror 
born to wave anti-war posters 
born to bow in front of the faceless flag
born not long ago
born with Joan of Arc
born with Hannibal 
born with Buddha 
born with the Devil
born with a cherry seed in the throat 
with knife in the belly
born to be dead
born to spray seed
born to be left by the perfect woman
born with no face
born to walk on the avenues of dead
born to listen to Mahler
born to eat apples and oranges in the 
summer Sunday morning
but at least I know:
there are no diamonds in the mine. 

Truth

why there is no girl at all in my bed
tonight? and every other life is just the same.
in this Sunday winter night
alone in my bed
with all the empty bottles on the table
and all the wasted dreams in the 
trash can.
oh, my god! this blue-collar, guillotine job
sucking away my life
as the lovers make gentle love 
as the babies sleep in their warm cribs
as the worms wait for me in the dirt
I am waiting in the bed.
one lonely night
useless dick. 

**Copyright 2008-09 Peycho Kanev, all rights reserved Send us your comments on this article