Free as a beast by Peycho Kanev

Living this live and
for the hell of it,
in this dark cloudy night in North Chicago
drinking beer after beer and throwing the empty bottles on the floor,
watching some XXX movies while the garbage
trucks embarrass the stillness

the girl on the screen says:
“oh, you are so big, you are so hard,
my boyfriend is out of town, you can
come over”

and I look at her long legs,
I observe this perfect body,
this breasts bouncing on the silver screen
like some drunken moons,
imagining what it would be like if she is living with me,
can I cope with all this voluptuousness jammed in only one
body?
will she be able to endure all my sexual cravings,
suppressed for such a long time?

what difference does it make…?

I am sure she will never hear my name, she will never
feel my tongue working on her privy parts,
while I keep on draining the frothy fluid in my throat,
I continue to imagine…

but I know that if she shack up with me,
she will start to hate me after the third day,
because I hate my self too, you see,
I can’t stand my view upon the world affairs,
No, I love it, but right now I feel sleepy, I feel guilty, I feel useless,
I feel obnoxious, I feel demented,
for watching this perfect girl, staring at her tattoos (she has a lot),
even at this one on the sphincter
and finally I understand everything –

the big run has not yet begun,
the clouds are still here and I say:
ah, let her be just like this –
wonderful and genuine,
while my beer will save me from my self,
just for tonight
and that counts.

Her name is Adrenalynn,
and this poem is for you just for the
hell of it.

the bravado is over.

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2:35 A.M. by Peycho Kanev

The grass is shaking
but not because the storm outside;
it’s filled up with the red ants of
death – so pure, so alive,
and it is 2:35 in the morning
like every god-damned day is
2:35 in the morning,
and I take a peek outside
waiting for some revenge
upon my view on the world affairs;
but nothing is changed:
the red ants are running upon my
drunken arms
heading for my heart,
singing sweet songs of maidens
and children dead at birth,
and the storm outside is quiet now;
and the ants, my ants of death
are running away from me,
screaming with their little mouths:
“There is no soul inside”,
and finally I sleep with no remorse,
the perception of tomorrow lost
like a roach in garbage,
the ants are burning in my dream,
and I am happy for a while,
feeling mortal, too fragile,
so far away without moving a muscle,
sinking into the lie of
the new day

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