Three poems by Peycho Kanev

been here now

I am wondering about
something.

why there is no girl next to me
sitting in the bathtub
like a wet mermaid.

just smiling and grinning
and grinning.

I am a poet,
I told them.

what What?
are you crazy?
Screamed the leaves at me:
centuries of rotten present.

Yes Yes
i say,
but the pigs
and the shattered walnuts
don’t mind my existence
at all.

i walk
on the streets,
among the trees with
branches like hangman
in the wind.

laughing gladiolus, fish with wandered eyes,
legs made of anthills.

by God!
by God?!

this water is hot like
lava from the demon’s bath.

and the cop at the corner looks
at me angry,
touching his club.

by God.



****


world-wide suicide

my friend told me:
these times are not for poetry,
my man

and I
know

look at these girls and women
they write poetry
look in their dull glass eyes
and the poets that drinks a little wine
only for Christmas

this is world-wide suicide
the poetry is dying of
thirst

look at me

I was born to live in a big house
by the lake in Geneva
with two mistresses and a bottles of
Bordeaux, Château Lafite

I was not born to spend my days
in this little room with broken windows
drinking cheap wine
and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes

oh,poetry,
you cheap whore,
can you help me
now?

****
morning and nothing else to do


I wake up with the sun light hitting
my left side
I pull the sheet
and for 10 and half seconds I stare
at my girlfriend’s legs not her tits
(they are pretty good, too)
its noon
and I don’t have coffee and what is more
important I am out of beer
so I strap my shoes on my feet
and outside everything and everyone
is ugly again;
the mailman looks at me with resentment
like he knows the meaning of the words
sodomy and felching and snowballing;
on the corner next to 7/11
there is a black male tapping his fingers
on the wall and shouting to the chocolate girl
walking on the street:
Heyy,shawty,
do ya wanna one lyrical dush in your bush?
I enter the store,pay for my six-pack and the coffee
and head back home.
my girlfriend is in the kitchen
between her legs is a 12-pack and she is sucking
on the cold bottle
she looks at me;
Where have you been?-she asks

Nowhere.

****

Peycho Kanev loves to listen to sad music while he drinks slowly his beer. His work has been published in many journals. He is nominated for Pushcart Award. His new collaborative collection "r", containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II is now available at Amazon. Please go here.