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