I am moss-grown,
covered with old words and
empty bottles of wine lie here
with their uselessness.
My fellow men are passing by
with their wives and kids-
closed circle of creation,
“Look at this drunken poet, son!”
“Don’t you ever be like him”
but when the time is right
they will ask again for their
and their precious Shelley,
and of course
the unperishing Dante
and there will be only me,
more then ever.
The body next to mine
is pure and crispy as toast
dim moonlight permeate through
I try to thrust into her soul
but she is sleeping
and I sink into her dream
where I was created
in the first place.
Trash Can of Nowhere
Stupidity, obviousness and abnormality;
what conclusion we can make of this?
not knowing about the geniuses of the
knowing nothing about the H-bomb or
the expanding of the galaxy.
Which one will tip the balance?
As we stood still and watch how all of
the greatest finish their subsistence
in the trash can of nowhere
and the question now is which direction
should we take?
As the modern heroes burn into the green
of their bank accounts
as the phony knowledge about the Art
dwell in the college auditorium
as the twisted politician keep on
telling me that there is hope for Humanity
I live with my minor wisdom;
I continue to empty my garbage outside
because I know that when death comes
almost nothing is
Peycho Kanev loves to listen to sad music while he drinks slowly his beer. Peycho loves to put the word down and not talk on the cell phone for days. His work has been published in Welter, Gloom Cupboard, Off Beat Pulp, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Outsider Writers, Mad Swirl, Side of Grits, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Award. He lives in Chicago.
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