Peycho Kanev is 28 years old. He loves to listen to sad music while he drinks slowly his beer. His work has been published in Welter, Gloom Cupboard, Off Beat Pulp, Nerve Cowboy, The Chiron Review, The Guild of Outsider Writers, Mad Swirl, Side of Grits, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and not talking on the cell phone for days. He is nominated for Pushcart Award. He lives in Chicago. 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: http://www.amazon.com/r-Peycho-Kanev/dp/0979129494/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245429788&sr=1-1

 

women

most of the women hate
poetry
but those who have Pasternak
on their night stand
spit on my shadow.
women
poetesses
they lay in the tub with glass of white wine
and read poetry
thinking about me
I guess,
and when they went to bed
are alone
and the poetry lose its
meaning.


without

without money, love, sex, power, fame, friends,
without, without, without…

I live alone with my dog.
he sniffs the bitches,
I greet with my eyes
the beautiful girls.

I lead the dog with a leash
loneliness leads me-
I am deaf, blind but I can
feel:

something will happen
soon

with me
with the others

with this


unbearable world.


waste


they lie on their backs like
broken flowers

they lie on their backs with
legs wide apart like the hands of
the clock

their faces starring at the sun

and as the time lose itself into the
darkness

they lie on their backs

young and old
some of them received some deadly kisses
by the faith
and some-not touched at all

this monstrosity in the human race
everyone is praying to be loved
and everyone is nobody


tarot cards:


but all the flowers today are
dirt and worms.


the time within


your beauty will exist
as long as
the drink in my
glass

be intoxicate
for this moment only

and after that…

don’t be angry at me

you are just
my time

you are real
as one stripped
doll.


something like a snake, something like a knife


lost in the world
lost in the word
oh, my presumption of the present
and, yes, my hands like anthills
strangling this tiny place that I exist,
bring me the light of your torch,
because I toss back the Lie of The Art
and the falseness of God and Time,
crawl with me into tomorrow and your
redemption will be my revenge
for this world
for this word
for this sad sad being

oh, my bitter memories

all this viciousness percolating through
my senses of hell and fields without fences,
all your thoughts penetrating that black space
where we exist but we look for something bright
with our faces looking up

waiting for the light
or for the eternal darkness.



rain

Tuesday.
It’s like any other Tuesday-
boring. I stand by the window,
smoking and watching the girls
that are coming home from
school.They are beautiful and
soft, still don’t know that after
they grow up they will turn into
boring housewives with three kids,
dull husband and tedious life or
into go-getters,that doesn’t have
neither personal life nor personal feelings
and they will go to bed alone
or hookers
sick from their girlfriend Venus
and always hungry for life or
death.
But this girls
are still beautiful and soon the boys
will start to make a pass at them
and maybe even me
but now I just watch them
thru my window how they run
toward their houses in the rain,
wet and childish they
squelch in the puddles and lift their
wet short skirts,
the light make-up that they have on
is slightly running on their cheeks
and their thoughts and
their dreams are still fabulous and
colorful
but soon enough they will be
feminine and real
and they will be interested in
quite different things
and the rain will no longer be
an obstacle.
I keep stand by the window and
think that I was
so many different things
but never this one.
I have always wanted to be
rain.