Monday, May 3, 2010

Peycho Kanev’s work has been published in Welter, The Catalonian Review, The Arava Review, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, In Posse Review, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He is nominated for Pushcart Award and 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:

Peycho Kanev

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

Pleasurable Appearance

The curtains are our frontiers
of the outside world and we hold on
in our pleasurable siege

neon dreams and false promises
try to penetrate the Venetian blinds
but we are too clever for them and
for their velvet squalors

and through the smoke of our cigars
your face appears like some tortured
moon not yet ready to be taken
into the sawdust of the oblivion

it is 3:25 A.M and I imagine the people
on streets are walking slowly and waving
knifes with our names engraved on them,
with our faces inside their heads

and I get in the bed next to her and she mumbles
something like gratitude and then go to sleep,
calm while outside I can hear the dark flowers
open up for love.

Distant voice

Strange eyes licked the frost of my

watch for the eternal spiders and
for women that could drink your
soul straight from your gut

I am careful;

I step attentively into churches and
I am humble during earthquakes and
I do not pet small animals and grown
I am relentless in the face of the morning

and I know that the razor is made for
shaving but some mornings the faces
on the streets are just too many
and I do not care for people as do not
care for object
because for the last 2000 years we witnessed
the true face of mankind
and that is the other
why I do not have sanctuary or
I sink into this little words and I hope
that no one will wind me

and when my phone rings
I lift up the receiver
very carefully,
I hear some distant voice
and I hang up

This is some kind of exit

What is the human body
but a frame of the ugliest art;

today’s beauties will wrinkle up
and die like today’s words:

That is the mechanics of things
and the mathematics of the universe

The time is like snake biting its
own tale.

The circle is eternal

No way out
you can’t bribe the guards in this prison
called Life
you can’t even come up with decent escaping

This is the reality

The machine works this way

Everything will disappear
even the great name from the past
and all their glory and all their genius

and at the end
we will hold our hands in the air
praying for some kind of salvation

as someone will blow the candle

Thank you, Jesus.
with your horns and
the garlic mouth

We should have known better.

The song of my computer

The best way to write is not to try:
let it flow like sadness dripping
down from the autumn leaves,
and my computer screams: “Let me
sing my song!”
(but computers cannot scream),
(doesn’t matter, this is cybernetic
and the mirror shows me the fear
of the deer or the bravery of the crow,
My dear, I say in my sleep, sorrow
comes to us when the night falls
over the city,
dark, grey, irrelevant,
it comes, slowly, slowly,
embracing us in its gentle arms –
warm and fuzzy we feel and let us

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