“The editors liked your poems
very much but
we have to inform you,

and you are going down
the tulips are redder from
the blood


there is nothing worse than
an aging poet
screaming in the mirror
for recognition.

a notice

the sun sunk down like
Titanic in the glacial ocean;

I don’t hear the music
I can’t feel the warmth
the history is gone
the victory is death

I am dead

I have to choose the way of
my withdrawal,
now and ever,

I look at the calendar at the wall
I wince
I nod


I am delighted
for a while.

I count to 11

the impossibility of this life is
in his beauty:
the beauty is perfect
like a crazy flower

new life
and old death:
dung-beetle pushing his own
little treasure
and sunshine always sunshine,

I smash the fly on the window
and my phone starts to ring,
I count to 11
and it stops.
somebody wants to hear my voice?
someone needs me?

I just want to set on fire all
the pigeons on the square,
I want to drive my index finger
along the edge of the knife,
I want to send my love in
a package to Somewhere.

the phone is silent.

I water the flowers. 

© Peycho Kanev

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 Word Riot, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Cemetery, Nerve Cowboy, The Chiron Review, The Guild of Outsider Writers, Spoken War, Side of Grits and many others. He loves to put the word down and not talk on the cell phone for days. He has been nominated for a Pushcart. He lives in Chicago. Alone. His new poetry collection, which is a collaboration with the poet Felino Soriano and the Editor Edward Wells, is out now and can be found at