lilies in flowerpot by the window
and music never written
is playing:
the arms of the night
are raising like winters
and everything becomes silent
somewhere deep inside in the time,
everything is turning into glass:

the stones are in my hands.



It is dark. And God is somewhere else.
The bottle cannot make it any brighter. And hell is hot.

Upon this land,
There is AIDS, there are wars, there is hunger, there is dark
And the poets are thirsty.

It is nice enough that we understand these things,
It is clever enough that we can sing, with our souls
Flapping on the branch where even the tiger is very
High, oh high he is, indeed.

Like Sisyphus we keep on going with the rocks in our
Brains, there are no cracks in Time, precious Time, our –
Because we know that it will never end.


Lost it.



There is nothing wrong about the snake.
There is no ugliness in the spider, the worm
or the rat.

nature is perfect,
without us.

all that is impure is hidden within the man.

we got our thumbs,

what did we make of this?

first we’ve made clubs to beat
our brothers down,

then we stuck the thumbs up.

and now we are voting.



Wind on the streets
of the dark city

concealed people
in the coffee shops.

Sears tower pierce
the rainy heaven

coercing the gods to
cry upon the oblivion.

I observe the world
through my window

elbows resting on
the red tablecloth

feeling distant from
the rest of the mist.

Right now, it’s time
for the unexplainable

to rule the universe, now
it is time for all the roads

to be marched by soldiers,
wandered by the prophets

of tomorrow, stripped by
the unknown vultures,

my time is the ultimate time
given to the crow and the fox,

mutilated by the opaque clock,
mangled forever forgotten.

We dwell in Virgil’s hell,
incapable of living right,

receiving deadly kisses
by the lyrical faith.

The world is a rotten apple
rolling in the endless abyss,

we are the blind worms
driving through the delusions.

Some kitten imagine that it is
ball of yarn, rolling it, playing,

purring, purring, killing,
the insanity in all of us.


Peycho Kanev loves to listen to sad music while he slowly drinks his beer. His work has been published in Welter, The Catalonian Review, Off Beat Pulp, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and not talk on the cell phone  for days. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “r” is available at Amazon.com