Of Water

My babies are made of water.
They emerge on the surface as you are having
Dinner.
Quietly, in their liquid attire.
Forget sparks, spit on the power of fire –
My babies are made of water.


Her insignificant nothings tell me
I should ride my own
Horses.
I know using hugs for crutches
Is not what She wants
Of me.


Hey you,
Yes you - if I ran away into the river,
And my pebble-cut hands refused to beckon
For your shadow,
Would you curse me then?
Erase everything that I have been
To you?

Все някога...

Зеленият вятър на лятно безвремие
Захапа ръцете ми, бързо понесе ме
Над мисли катранени,
Мънистени спомени.

Заех гласа ти за звуците,
Чийто смисъл рисувам по себе си.
Като кожа изсъхнала беля блянове,
Един по един, от сърцето си.

Твърде бледни са, заключвам ги.
Ще ме убият все някога, крехка съм.
Златно, живо, обидено,
Полето крещи под крилете ми.

Best song I''ve heard in a while

Modest Mouse - The World At Large

Ice-age heat wave, can't complain.
If the world's at large, why should I remain?
Walked away to another plan.
Gonna find another place, maybe one I can stand.
I move on to another day,
to a whole new town with a whole new way.
Went to the porch to have a thought.
Got to the door and again, I couldn't stop.
You don't know where and you don't know when.
But you still got your words and you got your friends.
Walk along to another day.
Work a little harder, work another way.

Well uh-uh baby I ain't got no plan.
We'll float on maybe would you understand?
Gonna float on maybe would you understand?
Well float on maybe would you understand?

The days get shorter and the nights get cold.
I like the autumn but this place is getting old.
I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast.
It might not be a lot but I feel like I'm making the most.
The days get longer and the nights smell green.
I guess it's not surprising but it's spring and I should leave.

I like songs about drifters - books about the same.
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
Walked on off to another spot.
I still haven't gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love? Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?

The moths beat themselves to death against the lights.
Adding their breeze to the summer nights.
Outside, water like air was great.
I didn't know what I had that day.
Walk a little farther to another plan.
You said that you did, but you didn't understand.

I know that starting over is not what life's about.
But my thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud.

за губенето и намирането

Оказва се много лесно, губенето. Вътрешно го зная, но стигне ли се до там, винаги се изумявам. Колко е лесно да забравиш кой си. Случват ми се разни работи напоследък, едно след друго се нижат, неприятни...И хоп! Аз губя равновесие и така, едновременно с това, губя лика си. Знам, помня, че има едни неща, чудни, притегателни, които ме викат, които обичам, но те сякаш се разсейват под тежката сянка на другите, лошите неща, които, кой знае защо, все решават да ме посещават на рояци. Четох една статия на Милена Фучеджиева за самоубийствата. Никога не бих дръзнала да отнема сама това, което ми е дадено свише, но който ме познава е наясно, че темата ми е адски интересна. С какво бе интересна статията - ами с това, че жената решава всички проблеми на чувствителната творческа душа с антидепресанти. Пийни един прозак и ще си се намериш много бързо, казва. Не знам...Сега пък ми идва друга мисъл - днес пак обяснявах на любимия си човек колко обичам водата. Може би аз съм като водата - непостоянна.

Липсва ми това сладко усещане на увереност и вътрешен комфорт - да погледна в огледалото и да познавам отражението в него...

Спонтанно

И ето ме тук, над белия лист.
С вечерната си душа наметната,
Чийто леден атлас, като по каприз,
Пълзи лукаво по раменете ми.

В тъмата мечтите мълчат;
Мислите вият в тъмата.
Като сняг, като сняг пада тихо
Вековният враг над душата,

Вековният враг – Страхът.
Нима не се вцепенявате
От безверие, от реторика, от затворени кръгове,
Нима не трепвате, ти и конят ти?

И ето ме тук, изкусителка. Загадъчна.
Красотата топи се във сенките,
Съвършена, ранена, пословична.
Непостоянна. Простено й е.

Ако имах зелено ъгълче,
Където горски прашец полепва по клепките,
И бурята сменя злите тонове с меките,
Щях да сънувам теб и конят ти,

Само че в спонтанно жълто.

'a new madness...'

Splash

Charles Bukowski

the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.
this is a beggar's knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
through Madrid.
this is you on your
death bed.
this is Li Po laughing
underground.
this is not a god-damned
poem.
this is a horse asleep.

a butterfly in
your brain.
this is the devil's
circus.
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
you.
feel it?
it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room.

this is not a poem. poems are dull,
they make you sleep.

these words force you
to a new
madness.

you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a
blinding area of
light.

the elephant dreams
with you
now.
the curve of space
bends and
laughs.

you can die now.
you can die now as
people were meant to
die:
great,
victorious,
hearing the music,
being the music,
roaring,
roaring,
roaring.

Poem of the day

A Way To Love God
Robert Penn Warren

Here is the shadow of truth, for only the shadow is true.
And the line where the incoming swell from the sunset Pacific
First leans and staggers to break will tell all you need to know
About submarine geography, and your father's death rattle
Provides all biographical data required for the Who's Who of the dead.

I cannot recall what I started to tell you, but at least
I can say how night-long I have lain under the stars and
Heard mountains moan in their sleep. By daylight,
They remember nothing, and go about their lawful occasions
Of not going anywhere except in slow disintegration. At night
They remember, however, that there is something they cannot remember.
So moan. Theirs is the perfected pain of conscience that
Of forgetting the crime, and I hope you have not suffered it. I have.

I do not recall what had burdened my tongue, but urge you
To think on the slug's white belly, how sick-slick and soft,
On the hairiness of stars, silver, silver, while the silence
Blows like wind by, and on the sea's virgin bosom unveiled
To give suck to the wavering serpent of the moon; and,
In the distance, in plaza, piazza, place, platz, and square,
Boot heels, like history being born, on cobbles bang.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

And when, by the hair, the headsman held up the head
Of Mary of Scots, the lips kept on moving,
But without sound. The lips,
They were trying to say something very important.

But I had forgotten to mention an upland
Of wind-tortured stone white in darkness, and tall, but when
No wind, mist gathers, and once on the Sarré at midnight,
I watched the sheep huddling. Their eyes
Stared into nothingness. In that mist-diffused light their eyes
Were stupid and round like the eyes of fat fish in muddy water,
Or of a scholar who has lost faith in his calling.

Their jaws did not move. Shreds
Of dry grass, gray in the gray mist-light, hung
From the side of a jaw, unmoving.

You would think that nothing would ever again happen.

That may be a way to love God.