DILIGENTLY
– TENDER
Here I gaze
at you
And I pull
the trigger
Of my
diligent tenderness
But you are
more transparent than the dawn
More mobile
than my wasted conscience
More spread
than a sound
More
splashed than an air
Your body
is a shelter for a bunch of butterflies
Elusively
Filled with
liquid melancholy
And wet
impatience
Your body
is ornate with immortality
And here I
stand
As
forgotten monument
I get you
I pretend
to be important
And here –
I’m
drinking out your diligence
Diligently
– tender
More sudden
Than a pain
Here!
Here!
Here!
With words
in arms
I love you
I love you
Love
Love
Love
SERVICE
LONELINES
Your eyes
are growling
As the eyes
of untamed beasts
Your hair
grasps
The selfish
waves before the sunrise
Your hands
are splashing
On my dry
self –assurance
My body’s
twisting
Of your
progressive discretion
While I try
to save my skin
The mandate
Of my
service loneliness
Ends
preliminary
I’m
thinking of a unpaid time out
CHANGING
To change
your shadow on time
To fire the
radiant vice ministers
Just before
the next conference
To commit
to people as a public minister
In new
shadow
To obey the
laws as it follows
To change
your name
address
phone
working place
lover
To be
interesting
In the time
of global warming
To change
your shadow
To swear
That you’ll
speak the truth
the truth
and nothing but the truth
And as a
sunray to be followed
By the
state monopoly
THE LACK
The lack of
death point
Of the deaf
solemnity
The place
where we have time
For small
feasts and roman words
The place
where we have no time
For urban
talks
City
transport
Remote
excavations
And long
preparations
The lack of
death point
Of our
broken happiness
Spots of
reliability
On state
level
The lack of
non-state sensibility
In our
sharp non-state bodies
The lack of
seconds rest
When we are
really into the lack
Of the
crater of our state conscience
The lack of
an entire era
Of
anonymous correspondences
The lack of
hand to put the finger
On the
pulsating abyss at the peak
Lack of
abstainers
Lack even
of interlocutors
Lack of
paying our rents
When the
foreign loan is higher
HERE OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
Here only
seems that’s not here.
Here
doesn’t look like that there.
Here it
looks like you.
On the sky.
The stratus
clouds.
Or
something like that.
Here the
streets have no names
Directions.
Turnings.
Parallels.
Holes.
Here the
streets don’t have ditches.
Here the
gutters are growing rust.
Or
something like that.
Here house
and blocks
don’t have thunder conductors.
Nor
plaster. Mosaic.
Windows.
Yawns.
Applications
for wind.
Storm.
Thunder.
Or
something like that.
Here
streets are anonymous.
Here people
are synonymous.
Here you
don’t eat nuts.
You don’t
pick at your nose.
You don’t
watch football games.
Top news.
Or whatever
is there for watching.
Here people
don’t go to the cinema.
To the
theatre. To circus.
To internet
clubs.
Or
something like that.
Here people
are not on state jobs.
They don’t
improvise future.
The future
plans. Damages.
Here people
don’t leave.
Necessarily
for the States.
Or
something like that.
Here people
don’t swear.
They don’t
grow.
Here
there’s no maybe, sometimes, if.
Here
there’s no whatever.
Whatever.
Wherever.
Whenever.
Or
something like that.
Here people
don’t set dates.
Fees.
Height.
Weight.
Watches, of
course.
Shoes
numbers.
Their steps.
The number
of their pimples.
Their sighs.
The
measures of their hearts.
The
impulses of a member of the family.
The crumbs.
The
cock-roaches.
The dough.
The place.
Or
something like that.
Here there
are no witnesses.
Not even
defendants.
Here people
have no alibi.
Libido.
Or
something like that.
Here the
architecture of silence is perfect.
Here people
are native architects.
Here you
drink to the bottom.
Here
politicians are not mutants.
Deadly
altruists.
Or
something like that.
Here wombs
are not placed in brackets.
People
don’t go to hell.
Here flies
and spiders are in alliance.
We have
trails going among us.
Here the
switchman is already dead.
Or
something like that.
LOST POEM
This poem
Does not
have a shelter
Nor desk
Nor place
Nor friend
Nor brother
Nor sister
Nor justice
This poem
May starve
Cause it
doesn’t have rack
Or
appetite-gullet
And the
food behind the paper curtains
Had
finished long time ago
This poem
May harm
volume of poetry
Or it could
be useful
If the fan
is still on
In the
midst of disciplined unscented lines
So let the
poem go to the angels
With a
scented orientation system
DURING
During the
long, long nights
Of the
late, late beloveds
With noisy
steps and silent hearts
Around high
buildings with low ceilings
Small
aluminum windows
And steel
quadrangle doors
Everywhere
is crowded
Crowded
with tenderness and constraint
PIN CODE
She steps
Slowly
Tender
In the
cover of
The street
shades
And
invisible street musicians
Covered
with clouds of neutrality
I see her –
White
Dazzling
white
Continually
slow
Continually
tender
Non –
stopping
She stops
She goes
into the sweet shop
And she
buys milk with rice
She tastes
It’s her private
time out
I would
say: PIN code
I taste
I see her –
Milky
Calm
Athletic
Verbal
Enough
I see her
I’m going
liquid
Rice fields
Start
growing on my skin…
WALK
You’re
walking
You walk me
out
In you
Through you
Along you
You’re
walking
You walk me
out
With leash
of timidity
That seldom
barks
And how do
you start to like dogs
How
THE WORDS
THAT
“if you are silent
you
should say that you are silent
if
you can’t write
you
should say that you can’t write”
Tanikava
Shuntaro
The words I
send you
Are
juvenile criminals
Set free I
don’t know how and why
The words
you meet me with
Are hired
murderers
With lots
of hanging cases of their own
The words
we forget
Remember us
We remember
only their smell
OF DWARVES
AND GIANTS
I would
like not to speak
But to act
with words
So the
people could
Touch my
words with hands
Wrote
Tadeush Ruzevich
And I
touched his words
But I never
managed
To climb
His small
finger
That is how
sometimes
Dwarves
pretend to be giants
And giants
pretend to be dwarves
But finally
it all depends on the budget
WANTED
He’s coming
He’s
gaining
He’s
quicker than events
Playing
part of top reporter
On the way
he lost his shadow
Executing
service duties
He knows
that somewhere on the way
They sell
cheaper
The bribe
As real
reporter from
The crime
scene
From the
crime scene
He’s
telling the news:
The
freedom’s in the rental shop
For mass
consumers
Oh Jesus, brothers do not buy!*
\Famous
line of d. p. – ex-prime minister of Bulgaria\
In the
beginning of June
The city’s
full of pregnant women
In the
beginning of June I remember lines from October*
That kind
of reminds me of the universal autumn**
Or of the
high autumn of your body***, going retro
In the
wheelchair of the poetry
In the
beginning of June
You can
know us on our saliva
And the red
cheeks
Excited
By the dead
silence of the audience
The audience
is for free
In the
beginning of June
The city’s
full of protocol men
And
shivering waiting pregnant women
In the
beginning of June
We are on
our nails and sucking our fingers
Facing the
monuments of our innocence
On which it
is written anonymously
God carries
an old-date stamp
Превод: Деяна Робърт,
юли 2005 година
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