36

we multiply a few billion scars into radiance.

the mournings of the day dissolve, the chrysanthemums of

risk stitch us together like morse code.

it's too beautiful to be the objective truth, but it is so.

“would” in all its forms -

erogenous fictions and dystopian

isotopes of “what would it be if”.

the volleys of the storm, picture of an iris,

the pain of utmost proximity -

we are an equation of all these.

come on, you say, let us go, and this “us” transforms

nihilism into possibilities. and

the news broadcast which continues with

negligent gods and providence

and the feeling that everything is a function of.

we look around like weathercocks,

like acrobats we jump any obstuction.

the aim we pursue is the only lighthouse. we listen to

fairy godmothers, Radiohead, frogs,

emulsions of potential reality, whatever.

“why”, “how”, "if” are expelled from the dictionary.

the irony of fate is there is neither irony nor fate.

the jasper of our touch is an atom bomb.

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

A ‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎POEM ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ABOUT ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎HOPE

you might even die tomorrow.

yes, for real,

it’s quite posiible.

it's complex, but

the brightest, the sharpest November winds

will take you to the swampy side of black,

while the black in your liver will grow blacker

most probably at night.

the white in your lungs

will go black as well,

you'll burn and you’ll hurt.

you'll hurt other people as well.      

but!

in the absolute glittering decay of bones,

while your cement teeth bleed,

and your sandpaper nails grow backwards,

when your blood is thick nectar,

you’re thirsty, you do not drink,

you're hungry, you do not eat,

you linger in your body made of mica and frost.

when death is only an eyelash away,

and the bed is half-empty again,

when you are no longer made of your grandfathers’ stuff,

when summer is no longer contagious,

you sense that something will happen,

you learn.

you'll pour yourself a glass of living water,

dead vodka. you'll suckle.

and it will be a little better than yesterday,

not well

but better.

and don’t forget – this isn’t a trifle.

before you begin to talk

you stutter.

before you write,

you breathe.

who knows.

tommorow you might even love.   

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

SOME ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎DAY

some day I’ll fall in love with you.

perhaps, not exactly with you

because that would be a cliché -

I'll fall in love in the idea of you. 

I’ll think about how you smell in the morning,

what kind of coffee you drink

what dresses you wear

and how much death loves you

because love is death

when you don’t kiss out of habit,

how many milligrammes of blood your eyballs contain

and the colour of your underwear.

some day the world will look like dystopia

and we will all wear masks,

won’t recognise each other

in the streets,

in the shops,

in our homes. 

in the mirror.

it will smell of frost and Wednesday.

then of course,

someone will die.

may it not be you.

may it not be me.

if it isn’t us,

call me,

I’ll make you a coffee as well

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

REQUIEM‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ FOR ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎STORMS

the storms don’t last forever.

I know this from my father.

it rains.

it rains.

it rains.

it rains.

and it stops.

you are not the same thereafter

and nothing else is.

but the storm is already gone,

the sky is clear,

there are birds as well.

people embrace,

drink coffee on their porches,

look after their children,

watch tv

and their reflections in the dirty mirror.

and then you start to miss the storm.

because you’re nobody without it.

because the calm sea

doesn't give birth to good sailors.      

and no one makes sound coffins

from sturdy boats.

and your boat is already in splinters,

and with them you pick your teeth.

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

BETWEEN

and between monalisas and mad hatters

and between golden gods and tons of LSD

and between furious absinthe and french cigarettes

and between death and walls with new paintings

and between the perpetual postponement of the inevitable

(which rolls down the mountain like an orange)

and between Pollack’s bright stains and absolute tenderness

and between dishevelled candles sitting on two chairs

аnd between my cross-eyed pastoral mirror

and between the end of September and the next summer

and between friends’ books and other useless shawls

and between this blue bird and its already alienated flock

and between the hurt and the herb

that purr quietly in the dirt over there

and between boredom and Zeno’s conundra

i remember that what i am

is no different from what i search for

because the search is over.

between you and me 

i'm planting an apple tree.

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

JULY

I count the UFOs of your presence.

the sky is barren, July is

contagious, we are sick with July. it is thick around us.

did you hear that, are you listening, are you thought-reading

are you absence-copying me, are you love-creating yourself?

stop. you can*t. this vector’s without end.

write me a star-foreheaded “orange” and know:

July passes the baton to no one,

everything's endless.

we will always meet by chance

in the happy desert of the year 2023

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

TO ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎MY ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎DAUGHTER

if they tell you, you’re only an apple,

don’t take offence.

watch.

and forgive.

and listen to Miles Davis, Shostakovich,

the crickets in the evening, birds in early morning.

and at night don’t even listen to yourself.

smoke. write. draw.

do not forget:

the cigarettes, the leaves, the drawings

burn and give warmth differently.

buy yourself a razor, loaf of bread, a crimson dress -

someday you’ll surely need them all.

call me just to tell me you exist.

under the sooty cloudless sky

you’ ll meet people with the souls of dogs

and dogs with the eyes of a young lover

the one you’ll learn to hate if needs be.

and don’t forget to smell the roses

in a world where weeds take over

where the difference between ‘’heaven’’ and ‘’hell’’

is in the clearing of the throat.

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

THE ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎HEART

is not an exit

but a door

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

NOSTALGIA

the crystal cildren run

between blocks of flats, laugh

frenetically, happily, they press

September leaves into a herbarium

in August while their immortal grannies

in dressing gowns and rollers

roast red peppers again,

chatting across the terraces,

and the TV antennae are helicopters.

quiet now, children, take in this air

breathe in deeply till it hurts -

tommorrow this will be a broken memory. 

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

SATURDAY‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ MORNING

I listen to the birds singing,

and the sun enters my room like a Persian prince

who looks at me with a fatherly smile.

and death seems almost impossible.

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips