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Peycho Kanev is 27 years old. He lives in Chicago. Peycho Kanev grew up in Bulgaria, and moved to the United States in 2007. He lives in Chicago now for reasons unknown even to him. He is 27 years old but actually, he is 2000. He thinks that writing poetry is tough, hard cruel game and if he had a chance he won't do it anymore, but he can't stop. He just can't stop. He has been published in The Guild of Outsider Writers, Spoken War, Word Riot, The Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Pyramid and many more. He will continue to put the word down.

no change at all

this day is dusty

and dark, the fingers refuse

to push the buttons

they grip the short cigarette and

shake,

I listen the music that abandons the

radio

and the brain records

the surroundings,

here it is:

I’m watching this white cover

with the red stains,

I see this overfilled ash-tray

as the day continue…

I open a beer and drink it

thirstily

and everything becomes more and

more shady.

Yes. That’s

better.

I see in the bed two long legs like

highways

and I ask myself :

wasn’t I alone in the room?

I stretch my hand slowly

to touch them….

silence.

George Sand

I look at her.

she is standing by the bed with a glass of wine

in her hand.

“change the music, baby.” she said,

“it’s too much blues tonight.”

so I take out Miles Davis and put something classical.

good piano.

she closes her eyes.

“mmm, that’s better” she said.

“come to me.”

I get up from the chair and sit next to her

and after two more bottles of this marvelous

red blood,

we fall in the abyss.

and those legs open like the hands of a clock

and those lips like dancing trees

and her body like thunderbolt

and I’m lost forever

and just before I fell

I stop

she looks at me with heavy breath in her chest

her eyes deep into mine

she says What?

and I didn’t say anything.

just stare.

for such grace even Chopin had never dreamed

of.

heart in barb wire

sometimes the smoke is a painter

I am watching how it curves from

my hand and draws you

there’s no obstacles for it and whole

room is a studio,

it paints you naked in the bed

it paints you with little drops of me on your

lips

it paints you whispering in my feet

your heart is in barb wire

you have to change it

we have to change it

let’s change everything here-

the wall-papers

the bed

the table

the rug

the glasses

everything that you touch,

the lock

ah, this god damned lock.

Too much or nothing

moments of agony and ecstasy

fighting for supremacy in my bed.

my girlfriend stared at me like she

knew it all.

but for that is way too late.

I am alone

feel bad

…but one year ago

in my house

with my little girlfriend

we set the stars on fire

the moon was ashamed

and everything was in flames

the bed

the floor

and the walls breathed heavily

and sweated

disgusted of us.

but now…

it’s too late

now

behind the house

dead dogs watch my yard

all the rooms are empty

and they will remain like this.

this night

the universe drops the curtain.

there

where the love died with mouthful of worms

I continue to dwell.

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

think about me

I guess,

and when they went to bed

are alone

and the poetry lose its

meaning.

IN THE DREAMFIELDS

© By Sherwood Ross

In the dreamfields soft with night

Silver thrushes guard the light

Owls and eagles grey and bold

Circle over the roofs of gold.

In the dreamfields you live still

White gown flowing down the hill

Stepping barefoot in the creek

The rose of love upon your cheek.

In the dreamfields soft blue mist

I remember our first kiss

Your open book untouched lay

And all its pages blew away.

In the dreamfields white with snow

To our cottage came the doe

Came the doe all unafraid

And by our fire its softness laid.

In the dreamfields you live yet

Wild and free with no regret

Arms encircling white as doves

Whispering “I love! I love!”

In the dreamfields I shall sleep

Spectral visions I shall keep

Overhead the thrush flies low

Where lovers walk, yes, even now.

In the dreamfields I shall sleep

Spectral visions I shall keep

Overhead the thrush flies low

Where lovers walk, yes, even now.

The Chickasaw Plum - Volume V - Number 9 - September 2008

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