Chaque fois quand tu me dis

que demain n'existe pas

un vent masculin se précipite vers moi

gonfle ma robe et m'emporte

sur les hautes terrasses d'un septembre

où je peux longuement regarder ton ombre

m'approchant de tous les côtés.

Et il est inutile de te répondre

que l'absence aussi est un verbe

qui ne se conjugue qu'au présent

car chez toi c'est déjà l'hiver 

et tu as raccroché l'écouteur.

Elle a pour maison toute une mer

et plein de fenêtres pour invitées.

Aussi chassez ce coq de l’escalier de pierre:

à l’aube, sa crête de feu embrasera les voiles 

encalminées, à cause desquelles elle a coulé

dans ses yeux toutes les Ithaques.

Chassez donc ce coq

à présent qu’elle apprend à s’aimer

et que son corps souple s’habitue à l’ascèse,

à présent qu’elle promène sa frêle joie dans le jardin, 

sans soupçonner combien de petites morts 

l’attendent dans toutes ces fenêtres

qui ont assiégé la mer.

Né avec l'été, maintenant il regarde stupéfait 

ce tamis débordant de farine – le jardin,

il tend craintivement sa patte vers le blanc,

la retire vite comme s'il s'était brûlé  

et miaule tristement sur le seuil de la cuisine.

Comme quelqu'un qui s'est réveillé 

avec des cisailles à la main

dans une saison décalée 

et qui regarde fixement la haie vive

qui entoure le jardin étincelant 

des premières amours, de la première mort

en attendant qu'on le prenne dans ses bras

et qu'on l'emporte à l'abri sous l'auvent.

Тhis is a world in which

your name does not exist.

But there is the bruise on my knee, 

whose blossoming you missed, 

did not look at me as I fell,

didn't catch me as I ran,

did not shield me from all words

that your fury breeds, 

spare me not the despair and fear

without you how could I exist

and behold, I exist. 

And in my world thy name does not.

You know this city - 

the face of it - the square, 

its shoulders - parks, 

its arms - the streets. 

And while you think about which hand to grab,

a wind leaps over your shoulder, 

pushing you forward, 

you know - you know this city.

The sun - a rusty beer cap -

is rattling on the roofs of the town. 

Intersections and shadows intertwine,

evil tongues and bright voices, 

corners of houses cut on my way home,

and I realize that all the towns 

are turning 

from childhood playgrounds 

into places 

where we buried our fathers.

The tender presence of the stars became perceptible,

each glimmering orb, in turn, lit up the gloaming pane.

All colours deepened to accent the advent of the queen

who rules the night through the celestial light reflected.

The light air shifts caressed the silver blades of grass.

Soft whispers soared narrating tales of legendary battles,

a brave heart, a fearless soul and bold endeavours.

A quiet time for a lonesome knight.

With lifted chin and weary eyes

envisioning the features of his dame

he follows each and every curve

deciphering veiled messages from heaven.

Her warm smile, or delicate gesture or her glance

are ample to incite innumerable noble deeds ahead.

I hope you are aware at heart, oh, dear knight,

the dame you serve is mirroring your essence.

A mind so precious you possess,

to bring to light a goddess out of a common face.

The goddess that you picture’s, I believe,

an epitome of your own magnificent being –

a mighty soul – unique in its perfection.

I compete with the world for your attention.

It defines me and gives me additional credit.

Being worth to take place in your mind's the idea.

Your notice incites my actual being.

Your notice incites your own being, in fact.

It is you who determines the values I've got.

It is up to you what and whom to accredit.

I'm just a reflection of what happens with you.

This line turned out to be much longer than expected.

My feet felt confident on it and moved with grace.

Oh, see those eyes below - wide open, thirsty, wanting!

No sound, though, I know not what their desire is.

I bet they don't know either, by the empty look of theirs.

The decision should be made again by me alone.

A fall and letting down the eyes must end it all for good.

Or walk ahead, learn along, and risk an unexpected end.

Those eyes don't help. They are struck with awe and want.

A gemstone's flying toward me instead! I catch this beauty.

Another one comes, then a third. I have to juggle now.

They never cease so I start styling my fair garments.

I am heavy now and I am tired of all this hazy freak show.

To jump off, and pretend it is beyond my reach is not an option.

It's a lie, I don't do that. I'd try the best I can and take the risk.

Whatever lays there at the end of this tightrope's a triumph.

إشربي بقايا ليلك 

كالقهوة السوداء الّتي 

توقظ بياض النهار

ووجهك

تكتب الريح 

بقطرات المطر 

اسمك على شبّاك الحافلة

.لا بل على قلبي

طابت ليلتك وأضواء نجومها 

إطفئيها بسواقي نومك 

حتى تطوب الظلمات على نور أحلامك

To Ogniana Ivanova

The sounds

Sink deeper and deeper

In the ears

Of the deaf musician

To Galina Nikolova’s fullstops

Don’t underestimate the stops.

Especially

If they are full

Of you...

Of me...

Of us...

To Eylül Gökyüz (“September Sky”)

The autumn

Fell in love with my daisy

And plucked its petals

One by one

And now

The only thing I do

To overwhelm my jealousy

Is plucking

All Septembers

And Octobers

And Novembers

From the calendars I see.

(Iowa, September’07)

Güzeller güzeliysen

Körü körüne de

Göz göre göre de

Göze gelmeyi

Göze alabilmelisin

Zorla güzellik olmazmış

Ne olursun 

Ben göze getirmeden gel

Gözüme

O her zaman sana açık

Değneğiyle bütünleşen parmakları

Bir orkestra şefinden farksız

Sağlı sollu 

Tırpan gibi savurduğu

Tek ahşap kanadıyla 

Yol açıyor

Dört bir yanını saran şu zifirî aydınlıkta

Ve

Ayaklarında yıllarca biriken adımları

Koşmak için her dâim can atıyor

Oysa onları âmâ değil,

Biz, görenlerin prangaları

Doğmadan frenler

Her kaldırımın her bir taşını

Bir o tanır

Bir de Tanrı

Görünmeyen bakışları

Bizim göremediğimiz her şeyi okşar

O değneğiyle

Yere her vuruşunda

Bir kapı açılıyor

Göklerde

Dolunaya her baktığımda

Gözlerim kadeh kadeh…

Ben gözyaşıyla,

O da, ay ışığıyla dolduruyor,

Ama nâfile:

Işık, 

akıp g i  d   i    y     o      r

Gözbebeklerimin kara deliklerinden.

A k  ı   p gidiyor

Meçhûle…

Ardaysa,

Sadece gözyaşlarım ve 

Taşan kadehleri tokuşturabileceğim

Karanlık kalıyor… 

Shattered days

floating in my mind

like dragonflies

in search for prey

another empty meaning

I am losing track of time

each day denies the past

that casts its long reflection

outshadowing the future

shattered days

of same old mirror

Trust is a broken bone

from the wide open crack

violent flowers bloom

You are my white nightmare

my cold midnight sun

my moon of tears tides and storms

my lullaby of pain and lustful lillies

my neverending dream of something

untouchable divine

and sacred,

hidden meaning in a motionless painting,

the painter and the muse and the spectator

you are

and how it hurts to say

that you are not…

Im confused why I haven’t saw the view of the red bloom on your cheeks,

I haven’t saw when there’s tension all over the roof,

And we could try to touch that cute thing,

But it backed us to the wall,

Banging its way to stitch our cold palms,

Forcing it forever as a never ending silhouette grasp,

I haven’t saw,

When there’s tension all over the floor,

And I could try to pretend that I don’t know,

For the melancholy on the wall,

But it’s always forgotten about when you phone me on the way home,

My silhouette grasp can track you in a foreign land or a stabbing line,

So no matter if our floor is tucked,

Our walls are burned,

Our roof is struck,

I will still be in that house watching the red bloom on your cheeks, 

If I can still taste the blasphemy of your own lips.

If the world breaks in half

And the seas run dry

But our hands are aligned and combined

My doom would be

More pleasing than a laugh

And your young voice

Puts a spell all over

My head full of flies

Because im anxious and im pressured

And my love is fragile as a pendant

But what else can I do

When you’re dissolving my inability 

Of overcoming the truth

What the words may bring

Doesn’t matter when I see you

By my side, laughing and grinning

With your proportionally right face

And soft lips

And the scattered glove and snow 

Around my feet are feeling warmer than 

The feeling that I get when you’re ten miles 

Away from me

I remember how we rode bikes

Passing dreams like a group of flies 

The morning was a friend

And the night had us on our mouths

Talking about 

Hating the never ending crowd

We never found it difficult to feel,

To believe or to be someone who

You’ll see now as thief 

Freedom was blowing through our hearts 

Our souls were so transparent 

That people thought of us as something mad

“But everyone grows”

My companions are saying now

Knowing that they’re trapped in an imaginary world like a mouse 

So I can’t say what it is to be mature

But there is no denial that the bike on the hill

Won’t ever cheat on my trust 

(after Elizabeth Bishop)

Worn out woolen pants, a baseball cap

With flanking logos of the local striptease club

(Housewives or some such word),

A shirt symmetrically striped by sweat

And sleeves with dangling buttons 

Like the slackened set of stuffed dog’s eyes

Someone twisted counterclockwise,

Then let go: the capricious consequence

Of wifeless weeks when the laundry basket

Fattens steadily on boxer shorts and single socks

(The pairs oftentimes misplaced or lost),

And the stench of solitude is like a dry bouquet –

These forsaken knights who cannot calculate

The right amount of bleaching powder,

Winding up with brindled armor

And a helmet tarnished by chlorate.

How can we rinse our honor?

What tumbling can remove the stains

From the single sheets of our days,

Who will buy us fabric softener?

They ask and sometimes fantasize 

The answers: a cheerful return at home

With wedding laces fastened

On the clothesline and pins like fireflies

Bobbing in the wind. Instead 

they’ve got to watch the years spin 

around in clouds of foam, this cleanliness 

as cold as coins, as stainless as regret.    

November zoo, loafing along

red drenched leaves and empty cages.

Which monkeys are missing? 

The keeper replies 

with the rattle of keys, a sound

full of longing for the locked-up animal.

This afternoon, 

no head emerges, no hairy hand

rocks the black rubber band swing

hanging loose from an artificial branch

like a slingshot for bananas. 

No one shoots bananas anymore.

A half-nibbled peel, the color of beer

is the only reminder of last summer’s carousing, 

the way fraternity boys leave

their pale plastic cups behind 

with a single sad cigarette butt stuck to the bottom, 

and a note on the table saying: 

I’m off to Africa, Rhesus. 

see your ass

tomorrow night 

at Serengeti’s place. 

Though it is rusty, the address is still 

legible. All rain-battered aluminum plate, a map

with shaded portions against an outlined continent,

also habits, food, and aspirations— 

an epitaph to the canopy of youth.

Monkey, they say you are dead. That you don’t live

anymore. So?

Even so

the iron bars of your cage glisten, 

your concrete habitat

crisp with frozen urine, 

this memory of you—hard and ruffled—

rolling like a coconut.

Come spring, they plant cogs by the dozen

in the broken ground, and wind up

patience. Then, just in case,

someone puts up a scarecrow to stand guard

at the edge of the farm

or maybe to serve as a sundial with two hands.

Time-farmers. Unsubsidized by the government,

untouched by technology, they use

only the most primitive tools:

a pendulum and an endless string

to sway over the heads of tick-tocking cattle;

instead of grain they stack up hours

in the barn, and later grind them down

to fine seconds, before bread rises in the oven,

just in time for supper.

Such simple life, gathering to spend, until

a drought comes around,

or a flood, and the cogs fail.

Only hunger is left to cuckoo

like an absent grandfather clock.

Δε βιάζομαι πια,

πουθενά πια δεν τρέχω 

Να μη ζήσω τη στιγμή 

τώρα πια δεν αντέχω.

Γιατί περνάει η ζωή 

γύρω μου και εγώ

μέσα στη βιασύνη 

να τη χαρώ δεν μπορώ.

Ξεχασμένη συνάντηση 

και χαμένες στιγμές,

πάντα λάθος απάντηση 

και απώλειες δες.

Η καθημερινότητα γρήγορη 

είναι αλλά

δεν αξίζει να τρέχεις,

να μαζεύεις πολλά,

αν το βράδυ στο σπίτι 

είσαι πάντοτε μόνος

και τότε σε πιάνει 

το παράπονο όμως 

δεν μπορείς να κατηγορήσεις 

κανέναν γιατί 

φταίω εγώ...

φταίς εσύ...

που αφήνεις 

και αφήνω

τη ζωή μας μισή.

Δεν είμαι ποιητής, μα την ψυχή 

με λόγια λίγα και απλά σ' εσένα ανοίγω.

Για την προσπάθεια μου αυτή 

θαυμασμό δεν περιμένω, ούτε λίγο.

Δεν είμαι ποιητής. Αυτές οι λέξεις 

βγαίνουν αυθόρμητα απ' την καρδιά.

Δε με ενδιαφέρει αν τις προσέξεις.

Είναι αδύνατο. Πολύ αργά είναι πια.

Δεν είμαι ποιητής. Μα για να ζήσω

χρειάζομαι να γράφω, να μπορώ

τη βρωμιά του κόσμου αυτού να σβήσω 

Να σώσω εσένα! Καί μόνη να σωθώ! 

Ποιός είσαι εσύ που θέλεις να με κρίνεις

αν είμαι εγώ σωστή ή κάνω λάθη;

Με τούς άλλους πως θα με συγκρίνεις,

πώς λες ότι η ζωή μου είναι απάτη;

Δεν περπατάς απ' τους δικούς μου δρόμους,

δεν έφτασες με πόδια ματωμένα,

η ζωή σου έχει άλλους νομούς,

θαρρείς πως όλα είναι δεδομένα.

Δεν σου αρέσουν οι επιλογές μου,

βρίσκεις υψηλό τον κάθε στόχο,

και όμως να, μπροστά σου είμαι, δες με

πώς τα πάντα καταφέρνω μ'αυτον τον τρόπο.

Δε σού επιτρέπω να με κρίνεις! 

Κοίτα τη δική σου τη ζωή.

Δε με ξέρεις, μα δε με αφήνεις 

και όλο λες και λες... Ποιός είσαι εσύ; 

When we leave the hotel at nine 

the soft introvert sunbeams

hardly imply the way the day will unravel 

before us like the heavy tresses of the Tagus.

                         You see how the land here gives way 

                         to the gaze so it rests against the water.

                         Yes, the land is a detail 

                         bound to get washed away.

But the day never goes hotter, 

it simply tears apart the lists of galleries to wander.

We’ll roam about with our mouths open and feel 

monuments, fish and coriander rush into us.

                         Our eyes will get used to the whiteness, our tongues – 

                         to the lattice work. You’ll get used to my sense of mortality

                         which always travels with us, 

                         it’s afraid to leave the two of us be.

Can you be warm? 

Like the fig in August, 

sunbathing, 

barely covered by the hands of the branches. 

Paint it. 

Can you paint that lush stillness of the breath 

just before it's let out of the mouth 

of the ecstatic lover?

Things fall and I watch them scatter 

without attempting to collect them. 

I allow myself to go out unmade-up 

like someone ill making small efforts 

to move. 

January is ebbing away and a waning Moon 

is grinning before me. She’s taking notes. 

Said she was writing

Creamy-butter amber spills

through the thick window blinds

to drip inside in heavy beads, 

the colour of summer daffodils.

It leaves wet, burnt-orange traces 

on the black tiled floor

as it continues its invasion 

of the big room. 

The liquid sunlight evaporates 

at the touch with the dark clover surface 

of a small wooden table

neatly tucked in the shadowy corner 

of an empty diner on 52nd Street.

Illumination scatters

shaping a dancing crescendo

of a thousand dusty particles

and they move gracefully 

under the lulling sounds

of the jukebox, playing a 

forever-since forgotten melody 

of a pop-song from the 90-ies.

All that while the moving hands 

of the clock hanging on the wall opposite the bar

are strumming with their long nails

through the face of time to leave the dial 

with the invisible scars

of wasted minutes passing

and eventually lost.

The seat opposite mine remains vacant.

I cast my eyes down and pin them

to the melting cream 

of my large vanilla shake.

I watch the heavy red cherry 

sinking slowly in,

disappearing in the foamy embrace 

of my second drink.

I plunge the cloudy -silver spoon

into the glass and keep on counting.

You said I was overly childish for always

getting the sweetest

possible from the menu.

I thought I was childish for always

asking you out and hoping 

you might come this time.

I’ve been exhaustively searching 

for the story about the valiant prince 

who shot down all eight blazing suns 

and swallowed the ninth's burning heat

to save the Earth from the endless drought. 

It’s the tale of the onе who stole three 

golden peaches from the greedy queen

for what would grow out of them

they say, blossoms every six thousand years

and gives its owner eternal powers. 

This is the forgotten legend 

where the warrior trades his immortality 

for those dying of famine. 

The hero who’s done his duty 

to save the world 

and ends up forgotten. 

What’s kept in the books, however, I learn 

is the generosity of the gods. 

It’s the forgiveness of fate,

the answers to all our prayers. 

But then I also know 

that no one celebrates the end

of the decaying blossom, 

the temporary beauty that fades. 

No one remembers the death

of the naked peach tree

of six thousand years. 

Our feet sink into sand

as the ocean spits up seaweed

tied in knots impossibly hard

to grasp with our toes,

turning us into sea 

beasts as well.

Amid the rubbery jewels

I notice that silvery hands

sprawl unplucked. Those

once deadly tentacles

are now just helpless threads

tangled in seaweed:

bodies torn away from hands,

finally free from poison,

no longer the fearsome creatures

from the stories I read when I was six.

You watch me in silence

while I pick up a stick

to sink into the soap-like bodies.

I've never done this before,

this exhilarating exploration,

so I'm confused when my eyes 

collide with yours,

my smile greeted by a frown

when I pass the stick

and you shake your head no.

Later I'll watch you

disappear down the sunlit road;

I'll remember your disappointment

reflected in their glinting skin.

Stabbing your small stick 

into dead tissue won't hurt it.

You know you can.

Laying fingers 

On my phone number

Stinging cables and nerves

My name is not available

Might be interested in a relationship 

with the divorcé

Head shot brains out

Then pressed in a coffee can

Grew legs and walked out

A Nuclear power medicine

for a different cup of tea 

Line is busy

Static noise in my shoes

Small player, unskilled labour

Join me in the last modified size description

Pulling me out of my skin

Kindly let me explain the reason unknown

For what is worth nothing 

Just leave the key in the ignition 

It's just words

It's all right

My casualty insurance prophecy

Is licking batteries and changing the world

This plastic bag situation

Seems like a good way to go about it

Order me some info about the ten steps to success

It’s 5 AM and the birds aren’t singing

A few hospital rescues and a CV attached to this email

Might get me into heaven

Might be interested in a calendar experience

My number is below the surface

Gotta love descriptions and electronic communications

Plastic surgeries and symptomatic relief

Best regards sent via the galaxy note edge style of writing

Gibberish

I never told anyone that i don’t want to live 

400 years

But i have seen the face of the end

It’s detonation time

Pull the trigger and i will be there

On my distorted holiday

Looking forward to hearing from soon

What is a garbage bag to a friend

And what is a garden of eden anyway

How's the surgery going

I think i clogged up my pores

There's two ways to skin a cat

Keep on turning the wheel of misfortune 

It's coming down and duplicating

Reverse into my address

I am buried under circumstances

You can watch the show with

Me and my saltwater family

Do you still remember your first slice

I regret to inform you that

Patience is a virtue and

Options are temporarily unavailable

Under the noise of a thousand wheels screeching

There is a reason up my sleeve

And it's wiring electric shocks to my God

i am Clenching a long hard feeling

Dowsing every day in silver iodide

The right approach does miracles

But the other hand doesn't listen.

as the wind passes by.

Don’t you ever imagine the storm

from the inside – she’s such a wind sometimes 

that she would almost break herself –

she’s such a glass sometimes. 

Don’t you really imagine – as it’s raining and blowing,

it may then be the time to shout;

you want to leave it here; to let go of her 

but don’t you imagine the shining afterwards;

the bitter sweetness of her tiny eyes 

when the rainbow catches and the world has just known peace

All the time I thought that’s it, it should be over now!

But, mom, 

don’t you ever imagine the windows glasses shine,

not even a scratch as they last.

though he sits very much alive in the room,

it's more of a personal death that no one else recognizes.

Just me - sitting in front of him, 

I can see the skin turning blue,

swelling,

and he doesn't even suspect,

clutching the bottle 

as if he’s choking it. 

Daddy, why are we always killing? 

Daddy is silent,

my daddy who I buried a thousand times,

but after every other death

I'm the one

who cannot breathe.

I squeezed a little flower into a mud ball,

that's how I said "I love you".

I believed it would harden like clay,

that we had to hold it aloft

lest I break it inadvertently.

I don't know what I did wrong,

the ball was falling apart more and more 

on the top shelf of childhood -

that's where my mother hid everything breakable

that I could cut myself on:

Scissors, dinner sets and knives…

I still tiptoe sometimes,

my hand merges with my mother's

but it never reaches the past. 

How stupid I was not to understand 

she never reached that high either...

for Toni

The time I left 

my best friend behind

was a time of hope

for something better

than a best friend,

was a time of hope

for true love, 

was a time of hope

for a better life, better

than a best friend,

better than her 

true love, better

than a life 

with my best friend, better

than holding hands

on busted streets, better 

than sharing 

the cheapest ice cream, better

than her lithe body spooning mine

in the hotel room by the U.S. consulate, better

than our unconditional love

unless I find

something better.

The time I left

my best friend behind,

there were parts of me 

I left her. I left her.

Tomatoes bring love.

Potatoes raise consciousness.

Onions spring compassion.

Mulberries promote change.

Corn is a generous mother. 

Artichokes are modest knights.

You cannot love thy neighbor

without eating your vegetables.

You can stop world wars

with the kindness of a single fruit cup.

Based on Bulgarian and American adages

Two sharp stones can’t

mill flour.

Two sharp bones can’t

make a joint.

Two stones can break

most bones.

You can kill two birds

with one stone

or the same bird twice

with words.

الحجرُ المصقولُ عندَ مشطِ الشاطئ

يلمعُ في عينِ شمسِ المتوسّطِ الحانية،

هو ذاتُه الصوّانُ الذي رحّبَ بمشهدِ الموج

ما بينَ مدّ وجزرٍ أزليّ فانٍ.

يعقّمُ بقايا النزفِ الأوّل، يتعبّدُ عندَ جرفِ الهاوية. 

يشهدُ حالاتٍ لا تبرأ من وجعِ الوجدِ وعشقِ غانية.

الصوّانُ الممتدّ في شرايينِ الوقتِ

يفترضُ تبادل مهجتَيْنا،

يريدُ {هو} تحسّسَ آلامِ البشريّة،

أطمحُ {أنا} متحَ سرّ الأبديّة.

ذاكرَتي مثقلة بالراحلين

لا يفارقون نهاري وفي الليلِ يحضرون على عجلٍ، 

لا يستأذنون، لا يقرعون الأبواب. 

يدلفون وبين أيديهم دلّة قهوةٍ تبتسمُ ساخنة.

يمرحون، يضحكون، يمازحون، يركضون ويعشقون

ينامون في نومي، يحاكون كوابيسي، يرتدون ثيابي.

ذاكرتي مثقلة بالهاربين من بهوِ الأبديّة.

يتربّعون على حصيرِ المدى ومن تحتِهِم موجٌ.

يرتقون سلالمَ الذاكرةِ دونَ حبال، يعصفون بالعواصفِ،

يواجهون الرصاصَ دونَ ستراتٍ واقية، يسبحونَ لا يبتلّون، 

يقرّرون البقاء طويلا، ذاكرتي مزدحمةٌ ولا يأبهون.

يتحمّسون لفكرةِ اللقاءِ ويهمسون: بقيَ على حضورك شهقة أخرى. 

في طريقِ الأبديّةِ تتقافزُ الدلافينُ، تنهارُ الأسوارُ العازلة،

وقبلَ أن تعلنَ الذاكرةُ استسلامَها سأدقّ بابَكِ،

لن أنتظر أن تفتحينَ رئةَ النافذة. 

أدلفُ إلى مخدعك،

أرشّ عطرَ النسيانِ بين جدائل شعرك.

أنامُ على وسادتِكِ وأسرقُ حلمَكِ القادم على متنِ أهزوجة.

وأنت تسيرُ في الطريقِ وحيدًا لا تعرفُ اسمَ الشارِعِ أو المحلّة. 

الوجوهُ غريبةٌ غيرَ مألوفةٍ، لا تأبهُ بحضورِكَ

وأنتَ كيانٌ يتنفّسٌ هواءً ما، لا يأبَهُ لرئتيك، 

لا يحترمُ خصوصيّتك، لا يأبهُ لتسارع نبضاتِ قلبك

والمقاهي تقدّم لكَ قهوةً مرّة، لم يألفْها فمُك، 

لمْ تدلقْها من قبلُ في جوفِكَ، ويرتجفُ الوعيُ قلقًا.

تنداحُ من ركنٍ لآخر شبهَ وحيدٍ، شبهَ معتمرٍ بقميصٍ

لا يسترُ عورةَ رهبَتِكَ، يغدرُ بأضلاعِكَ، 

القفصُ الصدريّ لا يكفي لردّ صفعاتِ الوقت.

وتنداحُ أنتَ من ركنٍ لآخرٍ، تبحثُ عن بعضِكَ،

تدركُ ربّما، تدركُ قبلَ فواتِ الأوانِ بلحظاتٍ معدودةٍ

أنّ المدينةَ وطيفَها ومبانيها الشاهقة، ليست مدينتك،

وأنّك طارئٌ في مكانٍ يقدّسُ طقوسَ غيابك

To Suzie Campbell

warm lumps of mud bloom beneath our feet   

Susie my dear Susie

small streams of rain run down the arteries of soil

sorry, really, there had to be grass here

it had to be green and with at least one tree

That's what we agreed - to meet in the field of bears

but here we are, stepping quietly on the dry soil

the air smells of cold

we move in silence

trying not to wake the bears

not to scare the grass 

which should grow after all

the field is empty, but we know they are here

probably at this very moment - you say - underground below us

curled up, the bears in half sleep

are giving birth to their babies

and I agree

I can't believe this empty field

to be just a field

here, I can already feel how the bears

with warm tongues mould out of nothing

the little brown bodies of their cubs

Susie my dear Susie

the night will fall and we will rest, I'm telling you

in the small hours it is always easier - 

the questions hang unnecessary and fall like ripe apples

around which circle the wasps of our confessions

for lips from the past, for bodies and for dances, for music

for frozen fingers despite the warm weather

and moments in which the membrane of fear breaks

and we learn how to dance

as the night is thinning

dizzy with insomnia we will tell ourselves - so what

let the bears come out

our footsteps have already grown big enough

and ring with a thousand little bells

they call the bears and here they are, emerging

big and warm

like hidden desires

then comes the morning and with it         

farewell Susie

farewell field with soft green grass

and a tree

we turn our big brown backs

and leave

the cold blue fish

turned into bones on the bottom

the water stopped

stopped the roots

the river rushes sharpened

the birds also no longer have what to say

life lives elsewhere now

the trees don’t speak with their hyphae

no underworld languages

no light through white freshly washed sheets

the river stopped and is gone

she won’t write back

she won’t write at all

/here, it will be alright/

/we are all lost for only a moment/

the sweet juice of your presence

is dripping in the glass bowl of now

and the bowl is almost full

/will you stay? /

the dreamer

the teller

the butterfly tamer

they are all fingers belonging to the same hand –

the one which is not always right

but you still need it to survive

/please remain, it will be alright/

the horizon almost closes on us

in the end we are all naked and wet

we sway while the world wags its pains

and there is beauty in that

there is us

a pale, pearly moon

bathing the garden

in opalescent light

you stand before me

emerald eyes glistening in the dark

i become transfixed

translucent

in this vision your skin is glass

or wax

slowly melting as the sailing moon

passes over your face

nuzzles close to your neck

a shadow crawls

between the trees

and as I turn around to look

you are gone

I fall asleep in the garden

and dream of you

when I awake

it is morning

and you are still forever gone

as your smile breaks -

a thousand glass shards on the linoleum floor

glistening, wet with your tears

sharp against your pale skin

cold between your eyelids

you remember a dream

you had as a girl

of a sea

with no waves

no commotion or wind

and you wish you could drown

in a sea like that

caressed

by calm waters

until you sink to the bottom

in an eternal embrace

honey drips from your fingers

in lazy delight

falls on the grass

where it melts

the sun hasn't moved in hours

suspended above us, leaking

oppressive heat

the sycamore tree reminds us

of dying

mildew forms on your face

and mine

as the shade grows thicker around us

we see it

a final caress

and goodbye

What leads the pen to lose its ink,

reveals through words what gods may think?

Who drinks from Dionysus' wine

and brings the Muses out to dine?

Does fate of some angelic kind

baptise you with creative mind

or is the demon's work to curse

a child to sing or dance, or worse?

Do words provide a sure escape

from death in any form or shape,

or is the freedom that you crave

what pulls you faster to your grave?

At times when sanity's at stake

do Muses come to give or take?

Do answers come when you're possessed

by Melpomene and the rest?

Like sirens on a shore;

They claim I'll end in solitude -

Alone forevermore.

I ask the sun if I'll be fine -

He knows not who I am -

I've spent so many days inside,

A daughter of Priam.

My mind - a haunted house in flames -

Illuminates my nights;

She puts on shows and I succumb

Each evening to her frights.

My life - a plague of doubt and fear -

The blackest of the blacks;

A tragedy in seven acts,

No pauses - back to back.

You built a house around me and you left,

But I’m still here - where should I go?

Between these walls is all the life I wanted.

I planted trees outside. They’re yet to grow.

You left our home unfurnished, but alas

I took the time to do it, now it’s done.

We’ll move right in the second you are back.

There’s room for both a daughter and a son.

I’ve only ever wanted kids with you -

I saw us old and grey, and holding hands.

The words you said still echo every night.

The fence you built around me? It still stands.

I’ve heard of worlds right outside these walls.

As if I’d ever leave my only home.

Some people tell me there’s more than this.

If I am safe inside, why would I roam?

Some try to say my waiting is in vain,

That you have left for good and so should I.

But I could never leave the house you built -

I’ve loved in it, and in it I will die.

No one comes at this hour—

cry in unison the plastic crocodiles

stationed at the front desk.

They look defeated.

Their eyes bulge, 

their heavy keychains rattle.

When the chandelier is lit

and the floor dazzles with squares,

they work as doorkeepers.

Slumped in a rickety chair,

face wrapped in a goldfish gloom, 

hands hugging a bundle of tickets,

a woman in a blue apron dreams.  

It is a kind of death:

colored pictures stuffed with fleece.

The halls are deserted. 

Driven mad by the carnival of stares,  

the draft flails in a bed of marble,

a wretch inhabited by phantom sounds:

wings beat against paper,

a thud shakes dusty vials, 

whispers catalogue the arguments

of mummified plaintiffs,

doors slam shut.

The stairs smile like ruffians,

baring chipped teeth. 

The ceiling swings gently in its web. 

Inside the glass cages, 

neon lights flicker, licking the black 

silence of taxidermies 

like flies. 

Pleased with their catch, the jars sing.

They are deathly afraid of sneezes.

The snakes nose around a sticky dream,

a treacle of venomous diamonds.

Someone has spiked their drink.

O colorless alcohol of rotten sunsets,

how heavily your dwarfish drowsiness

weighs upon the cold mind!

Jaws ajar, the eel broods. 

He’s shocked—shocked!— 

by formalin’s conservative streak.

Formalin is a tad too formal for my taste—

opines the blue frog 

with a basketball-size head.

Give him some hot tea,

and he will jump to the moon,

catch all the crickets in the lagoon.

With a mouth like that—

the scoundrel— 

he may even eat a rat! 

And all these eggs,

shelves and shelves of them,

all colors, all sizes:

what latent force or ghastly potential

lies hidden in their skirts?

An atomic bomb? An angel? 

Swaddled in yellowed silk,

a tiny crocodile mummy 

snores in a glass box.

He has a certificate in French

to prove his provenance and age.

Hatched he was in the Nile 

when Nefertiti blossomed into a moth.

Three thousand years have gone by quickly,

a drop of bromide in the sun bowl. 

A two-headed turtle sits on the top shelf.

She has crawled here 

all the way from the Danube.

Did the heads quarrel? 

Which one gave the orders?

Did they die together,

or did one live longer, to mourn the other?

The heads are strangers now,

each pickled in its own post mortem. 

The vulture poses for the flamingos. 

He is a thespian sort. He is courteous.

He won’t touch a meal if it wriggles. 

The raven is awake.

His tarry feathers gleam,  

a war bonnet of night screams

frightening the neon. 

He sees better with glass eyes.

He knows everyone by name. 

The butterflies purr. Coy pole dancers, 

they spin around the needles

that pin them to the velvet earth.

Having spilled their orange-red-purple guts

like overripe fruit,

the geodes moan and crack.  

They are cheats.

They didn’t even have to die 

to be admitted into the institution. 

The only sunlight—ashen, December-thin—

seeps in through a single casement window 

at the end of a long corridor.

The window is open,

sucking in the cold air like a lung. 

Its frame dissolves into a stillness

that eats the brain like salt.

This then is the diorama of the living.

Even the sky conforms to expectations.

Aswirl with snowflakes—

a mob of cold white noses

eager to smell, to touch—

a glum courtyard nurses two trees. 

A decapitated torso model

with removable organs

stands on a sill 

in the company of clay pots, vases, 

a men-at-work road sign, an ashtray.

The arches provide order.

The peeling stucco adds authenticity,

like a scar.  

A lit window, in the building opposite, 

shows a woman sitting at a table,

drinking coffee. 

Or is it tea?

And in the half light, here,

reflected in the window pane

in sharp relief, 

the nose, the sunken cheeks,

the ghostly eyes— 

it is him, and him,

my face divided into two,

one, horned with tree branches,

entering in from the courtyard; 

the other—mounted on a stick, 

adorned with black feathers— 

poking out of the bluish labyrinth 

where lifelike tenants 

propagate through a vacuum of hearts; 

a two-headed crow stranded 

in no man’s land,

at the border between two deaths.

Come back to us now, whispers the raven.

You will be happy here, 

among the blinkless eyes.

These foolish lavender clouds

glued onto the cobalt backing, 

tufts of plucked rabbit fur

dyed in vats and shaped to look

like clouds: they are not real.

This sea, silk drapes unfurling

emerald green, squid ink blue

over a taut tinfoil stratum,

spilling pretend silver wetness 

on the shore: it is not real.

This dusk, a snug drawer stowing

toy cars, clay figurines, shells 

into a mahogany chest’s wallpapered tomb, 

where light snakes in 

through woodworm burrows: it is not real.

This naked body, a droll automaton

of porcelain bones, string entrails,

straw cerebra, blood soft as smoke,  

a walking riddle asking what is in

and what is out: it, too, isn’t real.

This ebbing life force, mercury

flowing backward, over gilt sands,  

into its primal achromatic void, 

time rewound but briefly by mind’s

bureaucracy of details: it is not real.

This death, a surly, somberly attired 

charlatan in a frowning mask, peddling,

under the guise of an expert, inviolable 

tenets and foolproof woes, a thief of goods 

imagined: his one lie makes all come true.

The seed ruptures

and out of warm chewy entrails I crawl, 

a mouth with a leg.

I tell my leg to grow, 

and it grows, quick as mind. 

It pushes stone, dead root,

breaks free from the clinging soil, 

shakes off worm and grub.  

Here then is the land, 

a mound of minced hearts, 

remnants of an ancient war. 

Soft crust seals the blood like new skin.  

A wolfish fog chases birds, snakes hunt rabbits. 

I push up, up, above the fog, 

above the silty air, until I reach the sky. 

It is white, ravenous as an autopsy.  

The sun rolls fast, a flurry of hands and feet,

black gnats licking his fresh wounds.

I turn my head: he is gone. 

I never see his face. 

A sheaf of rays stabs my eyes, 

burning spikelets wedge into the clear pulp; 

they thicken, become hard, 

turn dark, candied as thoughts.  

I am getting fat. It took but a minute.

The sun, faithful as a relic, 

hurtles above with a frantic jangle. 

I can’t look up. My head is too heavy. 

Dragging a black broom, the night 

sweeps the leftover lights 

over the hills.

The dark shimmers, festooned with bones. 

There’s no one I could ask about this.

It happened too fast. Everyone was busy.

Red-faced, the moon falls silently. 

She is mute.  

Soon they will cut me down, 

split my head open,

wring the memories of the sun 

out of my thousand eyes. 

Sitting I watch

a meteorite shower

hitting birds in flight,

their feathers falling lightly,

like snowflakes.

For those birds it happened

in an instant,

so sudden

they didn’t feel no pain,

while down there

between the remains,

children collecting their feathers,

entangled in crowns on their heads,

were dancing and imitating

the sounds,

those they alone now possess,

as no more is what

they went on to imitate.

Endless acorns

left without devoted carrier,

insects feasting on the leaves in spring,

and the air grew insufficient,

rivers went more dry,

disappeared the engineers who would

put together systems of filtration,

the spare parts and the mechanics,

for a while

there was no more panic,

just the taste of

HEAT.

A doll

dancing to the sounds

of invisible chords,

broken signals

and missing transitions,

clear visions impeded by the silenced

intuition,

kicking the receiver

as per the dusty old manual,

from memories belonging to another

animal…

To disperse

and form again

the melody that strikes in tune

with a previous song,

pull the chords

with frozen hands and feel

the warm

on scratched, worn out fingers,

lick tenderly the swollen wounds

and rest…

in own caresses,

in fire nurtured by one’s self,

fire to open eyes

and focus sight,

love away from the sun

in the darkness of night,

in the humming of voices,

in the calm of night noises,

wild and detached

from expired choices,

the forest seems still,

inhibited by forces,

magical stones and roots

imbedded with wisdom,

flashing fireflies and foxes,

hunting in the night

with empty stomachs,

but alerted to survive.

Gorgeous and frightening sights

coexist in the endless

current of life,

all but a dream that won’t cease

to surprise,

an immense nothing

surrounding the lights

as we dive…

A boy running down stairs

Between block towers jumps

And lands on a field of green

His pants taking in the air

A bomb of colour yellow slips

Out and bounces off the ground

Into the sky like a rainbow

Pigeons fly out of his way

Cracking sticks on a dry soil

And flower seeds taken by

The wind refreshing sweaty armpits

While he leaps and leaps

Over stony earth pots that

Will be watered at sunset

And they know what is the time

It will take him to come home for dinner

By which the bubble gum tattoes

On his forearms will half-disappear

And re-appear in half again

On a tree trunk old enough

To have heard the tale of dragon crows

Not know to anyone anymore

Its ancestors, long extinct forests

Have sheltered these mythical creatures

Whose ghosts are still flying

On the arms of little kids

Trying to get somewhere

Before they can get nowhere

And in the end it doesn’t matter

Because they sleep the night

And dream away the end of time

Flying like a dragon crow

Behind their closed eyes.

be kind.

be the kind of man to protect your feelings

by acting like you don't have any.

the man from the future stands in the corner.

the tulips are singing all the time.

he's telling you funny things.

the tulips are singing all the time.

he's also telling you bad things about me.

the tulips are singing all the time.

the voices are telling you to hurt yourself.

the tulips sing continuously.

and jump out of the window.

the tulips are singing all the time.

you say I have blood on my shirt

the tulips are singing all the time.

and that I have visited you many times.

the tulips are singing all the time.

why am I lying that I don't see the man.

the tulips are singing all the time.

why am I lying that I am seeing you for the first time.

the tulips are singing all the time.

I'm leaving and I'm afraid for you.

I'm afraid the tulips are singing all the time.

my friend Morrow is an old egg.

he deals with life in general

like he deals with his breakfast -

just charcoal coffee & some stinky smokes,

the smoke comes out of his funny ears,

through his watery eyes

and vanishes into the unspoken.

he defines gravity by not noticing it,

all the time, years passing like broken bikes.

his love is a pointy and transparent skyscraper.

and although he forgets names

we oddly enough remember his.

Morrow, my nonchalant friend,

I know you don't exist.

but here I am writing about you

and writing to you.

there's no tomorrow.

come squeeze the day

and delete this poor poem.

In the rotten hours,

We sang and drank to oblivion

Euphoric, we fucked on your grave

That night, the putrid grass

Knew you were dead, but you didn’t

And I – I took the sharpest knife,

To cut my holy flesh, offering king Moloch

A drop of the divine acid in my veins

But it was you who burned to ashes

As I plucked my eyes out

So I wouldn’t see you smoulder

As I stabbed my throat with a wooden cross

So I wouldn’t breathe your pain

Because the night could not save you

Because the knife could not save you

Because Moloch could not save you

From the poison

Burning your bones

trapped in my own private darkness

a second skin that’s hard to breech

the flash of light on the horizon

becomes impossible to reach

under the weight of countless sins

I walk my endless lonesome shore

here nothing ends; nothing begins

and nothing matters, not at all

I simply wait for the light to die

Her name is old, a living thing, a thing with teeth and breath

With blood as cold and lethal as an ancient curse of death

She walks the streets, the concrete bones of this forsaken place

Forgotten by the stars

Like all of us, the souls trapped here in bleak eternal night

The city cries with grim torment, its howls spreading fright

And fear in the minds of those, ill-starred enough to face

Her blood-streaked, heavy scars

She writes doomed names, cruel prophecies, engraved in living flesh

Her art enfolds degraded souls in death’s corrupted mesh

Each letter burns; her signature stands witness to our sins

Each symbol drawn – a frame

I met her once, a figure veiled in mist of stale decay

Her gaze: a grave, a void that steals the faintest light away

She raised her hand, clawed fingers poised to carve into my skin

The next predicted name

The city’s structures loomed above, grey urban labyrinths

The wind brought echoes, broken trails of distant fractured screams

She scribed tattoos of borrowed time across my shaking arm

Then left me there, alone

I should have felt relief. Instead, a new weight crashed on me

As I stood frozen, staring at the blood-inked fate-to-be

A name burned crimson on my skin, blood dripping down my palm

A name not yet my own

an ant

a house

a bird’s wing

a bird’s flight

doesn’t stop a river

doesn’t chase away bees or cats

or good intentions

but a little wind starts fires

that destroy gardens and homes

and birds die in them

and good intentions

—too

the angry stolen figure is not afraid.

there was a copper body with a face

a young woman with frowning eyebrows

and a sour smile

wide hips, small chest, vaguely pink nipples

looking at the books and vases in my office.

she was a poet and a mother, she was a

a storyteller, she was a daughter undercover

she was a fantasy of possession

and a desire for abandonment.

I stole her on my last day and brought her home.

she never thanked me. the light bounced off

her unpolished yellowish

slightly grainy skin

and landed on the white wall.

now I know. I know why she’s angry. her

mirrors never worked right her eyes

always scanning for traps

her hair smelling of deep loneliness and

egoism

her mouth full of distasteful stories

she’s a slut she’s a liar

she masturbates with the door open

she gets especially turned on

by faces and mouths and teeth

inside the mouth when it’s wide open and

gasping in arousal. she wants to know

everything there is to know.

she’s very specific in her ugliness.

I can see all that in the blurred yellow spot on the wall.

because she’s been here long enough. I see her.

she’s angry and she’s not afraid.

I am not a sculpture. I am human and I’m

drowning in my fear

that I am staying enough hours and days in an

apartment and my yellowish spot will be

visible on the wall soon.

I will be seen.

my mellow skin is wrapped around a figure

of ordinary imperfections. they’re at least

beautifully comical. I hope he can see that too.

I have a problem: my body won’t let

me move a millimetre to the south of

    this strange time-worm’s path

    this badly calculated spiral of sentiments

that eats through

the galleries of intangible sensations

commodifying my nostalgia

sprinting jaggedly down the vessels of

past realities I can still smell;

so what moves me to the end of

    this strange race?

    a faux flower

— it knew it was a gift of parting and

   not a new year’s gift —

    is dying in my living room

    because I water it too often.

And I sink in the summer as the wind takes hold

of this sun-shaped box inside

my rib cage.

The green foliage is green with pain,

and I’m somewhere else.

Gods of light recline

in my eyes, but still

I can’t find you

in the dark.

On through the endless night

the candle flickers –

a feeling descends

from the sky.

This dying —

I already forgot.

The Universe with all of its atomic tidiness is a bit

incomprehensible. Metaphysics too. But I like physics

more than the physicists. The world is full of geniuses

and some others. The world is strange, like a movie shot in

Technicolor, but there is too much red in it. Imagine

the Crusades, imagine the Inquisition, imagine all of it

until now. What if, like the fiction writers like to say,

time starts to flow in the other direction? Imagine Galileo

working with hexa-core processor, Henry VIII on Viagra,

Einstein sweating in a Chinese fireworks factory. That’s why

I keep myself close to the agnosticism. This world

was screwed up before time was time, even before emptiness

gave any hints of vacuum. That’s why I like the simple

things. For example, in a gas station in Arizona, in some

foreign language the American Indian at the counter tried

to explain to me how to pay for the gasoline. I asked him

in perfect Bulgarian whether he had read about the life of

Ambroise Vollard. At the end we understood each other

perfectly well in universal slang, and I continued west. Like

I said, I like the simple things. Now, I think about the grass

outside. About each leaf thirsty for a few drops

of water in this dried world, painted in blood. I think of

the world as an accordion, but I don’t know how to dance

tarantella or polka. I think about all this pain for which there

is no vaccine. I have been in Silver City, New Mexico.

The city still scratches the memories of a gold rush. I’ve been

in the ghettos of New York. That’s why I say that if we didn’t

die we wouldn’t care about the time. That’s why I love

words. Everything is simple with words. But is there

anything worse than a creature who lives only to write poetry?

Where are Ovid, Boileau, Dante? Is it still alive, Gilgamesh’s

aspiration to achieve immortality? Listen, we live and

die. Listen, into the light of this cigarette you can find more life

than the whole universe. That is enough.

The leaves on the branches are getting greener, inside them

quiet music sounds.

Into the empty sleeves of the shirts hanging on the wire,

time whistles.

The sky is a sketch of a blue canvas.

Sun’s notes dance in the fire of a major scale.

The stones breathe heavily. And the sky is getting heavier.

My personal “I” crumbles into billions of “Us”. Wheat bows

before the ground and falls asleep. There is no mystery.

Water falls upon the puddles. At some other place, which

we can’t see, the painter picks the brush. Brown decay. Dance

of the substances. There are tracks in the mud which remember

the oblivion. The dung beetle pushes and hides his own sun.

In each fireplace a small Prometheus is working hard.

Crystals lick the windows, the silence chew whiteness.

Through the keyholes into the hearts of the cats the big sleep

passes. Darkness. And there is nothing else.

And when you're done with this one,

we'll give you a bigger and brighter pain

for you to have something

to look at ahead of you

when you walk down the street.

A better, tougher pain for you

to carry down the street.

You won't know why we'll do that,

and we won't know either.

Some are just better suited

for carrying pain than others.

Take the Russians, for example,

and all of you, Slavic people in general.

There's a certain kind of stubbornness in you,

a certain sense of greatness and grand purpose

that only you know about for yourselves and that

only at the behest of the gods, and with great worry,

and no small sense of loss and self-deprecation, you can let down.

Will you not look at least a bit offended

when we tell you that you can have

a far better life and carry your head with pride?

Just look around: All these people in

black clothes that are too big for them.

They carry all their weight all the time

and whisper secretively to each other,

as if they are all invisible clerks,

accountants in a giant

administration of pain.

Let's get all this pain undressed,

undone, and leave the Slavs alone,

the Gods say.

What?! Then what is left!? A giant

sense of

betrayal,

loss of self,

much fear and stress.

As if their

God had just found out

that they were

Nude.

That they had eaten

from the

Right Tree, the

Tree of

Happiness

and

Found it Good,

that they had...

Oh, how

could

They?

I mean....

what

on

Earth

were they

Thinking...?!

How did it even

Occur to

them

the tree

was  

Theirs

to

Look at!?

I wish I was handed one at birth. All of us

wish that. But not everybody gets it.

It is like a hole in your middle,

a black hole for time to pass

through it, for

you to pass

through it.

You don't.

A dark, black hole,

a dark velvet time, the passage of

time through it.

Dark, velvet time,

wide, black hole.

I wish they would sell these senses of self,

sell them on the market.

They would hang like gourds,

orange and weird. They would

stand out. I wish

I could stand out. I wish

I could matter.

Like that gourd.

Just look at it: all orange.

Can I

matter?

And I would get one (everybody would

get one. All fucking poets would clearly

get one.) And we would all hug and

hold on to them and

bring them home.

And whenever we felt at a loss,

or open to a new sorrow,

or were tending to a new and wide and wondrous wound,

we would put them in water,

in a bathtub perhaps,

and we would

hang on to them like buoys.

And we would

hug and hang on.

I know thеsе people.

They write

poetry, as I do. Тhey are called

poets. And they publish what they write in

books. I somehow cannot get to that part.

Let me explain...

There is a forest and

many fallen

trees are on the forest floor.

I have to clean the forest

to help it regenerate.

I know there are other people also at work,

but I can't see them.

I can shout to them, though,

and they can sometimes hear me

and we can have a short conversation

(nothing more than a few basic words,

what is most important).

To get to my words, to poetry,

I must clear the woods

first. It is far more important

and I must do this

FIRST so I don't scatter myself

and die or heap myself up

in piles or do silence a bad favor.

Do you get what I mean?

THEN I can get to that OTHER work.

The non-tree work.

And there, beyond the trees

is a clear, shimmering lake

in the mountains. Then I must

shout my sounds to the wind - not my words -

what words?! I must shout my

SOUNDS. To sit myself down and

write something on a piece of paper

seems absurd, redundant.

What idiot would write a sentence

on what was once a TREE?

The tree is in itself s poem!

And look at all those scattered autumn leaves

What awesome and extraordinary blanket!

(I wish I was аrrayed like one of these!)

What's more, the moment that

I write my words on paper,

the paper would be

blown away and lost.

But the sounds...

The wind will carry them.

The border of the seas is in her hair

The amplitude of my temperature

Is the spread of her arms

Soft carpet

Warm tea from India

Feathers

In my bowels

My vomit

Smells of flowers

My flowers smell of reconciliation

With darkness

If she bleeds for me at the Equator

I will sacrifice my legs at the Poles

And will observe the boiling stars

Resembling larvae in a rotten apple

I dream of moons in red

Circling around my corpse

While she sweeps the dust

In the yard with the wolves

And dolphins

She is brave and noiseless

Morbid and shallow

Like a grave

Because she stabs with the knife

Without hesitation

She puts a full stop.

The blankets are already wet

The drunkards are already drunk

The carnival is underseas this year

She is the cleaning lady

She is the leaning lady

Abusive villagers

Made of chewing gums

Welcome the guests

At dawn

And stick to their soles

Modern espionage for

Auld lang syne

I am sanguine

She is mourning

We got to know each other badly

Sleeping cat

TV depression

Caramel memories

Afterlife reveries

She wants a sepulchre

Shoveled with my own hands

With effigies of my ancestors

Petrified dogs

Well-nigh the city zoo

She wants it all

The border of the seas is in her hair

I am waiting

Dressed in black.

My speech is birdless:

Astounded undercurrent undresses

and softens the water, 

its dark hue suppressed, 

gone to the lilacs and lilies;

ultraviolet skin and island

make a veil,

the velvet’s direction is 

north with the norther;

unfounded fear of cradles

and interior sways

crashed on the logic

of old martyrdom.

The holy mud enraptured by heavy boots,

stabbed by spiders and canes,

laughing

under sobbing vultures; 

it is the beginning of the river 

but it was the end

for the moles are hermaphrodites

raped by blind salmacises,

cavities and dust;

watermen full of dignity 

and fermented fruits,

clutching the waves and adding sugar

to their crests,

never understood the origin of mud,

never understood the oracle in blood.

I am the white wizard,

supposedly a lizard

in love with moles and sugar,

in hate with dissection

because of the subsequent burning;

discrimination on nostalgia,

spiritualizing alcohol,

drones on drugs,

cadaver;

unholiness,

the end of pink.

Gender-fluid empyrean

feasts on the liquids of night,

sucks on the canals of salt,

weaves through the layers

of periodic tables,

blue over blue,

bird over mole

ill-disposed,

so unmannered,

as if pointing at neckline

or graveyard;

appalled,

uncalled.

Bad digestion, lack of vitamins,

carnal underworld,

furnace in the void,

to take all decisions in fire, then vacuum;

my passport’s expired,

unidentified,

who is this;

dawn and dusk is one,

day and night is one,

creation of entity without name and face,

sinister,

starless,

eyeless

and tender.

I have all this blankness

under my blanket,

I see nothing there,

I see no one there,

I see there,

I see there;

is it me or a galaxy

trapped in a corner?

I’d die three times in a row

just to glimpse your abstractions.

Your courage is startling.

When I see a bird,

I burst in tears.

When you see a bird,

you jump, to make it land.

Your accuracy guides me

through the labyrinths

of feathers and shit,

through the ice blocks 

in my throat.

You are a crystal.

How come you are colourless?

Your innards are red as my nights

but only I can see them,

as only you can see my nights.

We are a team.

I love your frozen woods

and white darkness.

You could be a sea

or a breadcrumb

but you are you.

Who has largess in excess?

We know the horses

would eat from your hand

but you cured their dark hooves instead.

You are cold but soft,

sick but with strong immunity.

My ice can’t resist you.

You are my black sun.

I burst in tears when I see you

and you jump, to make me land.

You are the sky, I am hydrogen,

you are my den, I am your cry.

We are a team.

The flocks will return,

the branches will break.

There will be water

and many sisters who will seek their

many sisters.

And I will see you in nine months.

Hand in hand, we jump.

Unë po t’i jap vargjet

E mia

Ti merri

E kthema një letër

Të zbrazët

Që të kem mjaft vend

Ku të mos të të shkruaj asgjë.

Po të më kërkoje...

Aq i pritur...zëri yt...

Vdekje, heshtje...sikur plagë...

Vetëm nata flet...magjepsje...

Një imazh i zhdukur...

Koha si poet pa frymëzim, 

Tani pa role, pa shpresë, pa kthim...

Veç po të më kërkoje, 

Vdekje, zëri yt...

Botë e futur në një lot...

Kufomë e jetës,