Two poems by Peycho Kanev

Poetry
by Peycho Kanev

save me

the rats are coming
the rats are running
the rats are closing

she said:

save me from the rats of the loneliness
save me from the rats of the desperation
save me from the rats of the pain
save me from the rats of the false love

she said:

I want to lie down in your bed again
I want to smell your hands again
I want to look into your eyes again
I want to be your mouse again
again and again and again…

the rats attack
the rats bite
the rats squeal
the rats die

she said:

save me

I said:

make me forget.

++++++++++++++++++++

song from the cradle

I live in the guts of Styx
among the imbecile drunks
and the sun and
the Spring

let it be known.

let it be known that
I can’t kill because
I don’t see anything
alive.

let it be known that
I can’t love
because
there is nothing
to love.

let it be known that
I can’t laugh because
the laughter is buried.

let it be known that
I can’t cry because
I know the whole
truth.

let it be known that
the lions are not growling
any more.

let it be known that
when you are alone
that’s not loneliness.

let it be known that
the madhouses and the jails
and the hospitals
are full.

let it be known that
the human race does not know
anything about mercy.

let it be known that
there is pain.

let it be known that
the saints are not those who
die on the cross,
let it be known
that the saints work in the factories,
poke in the garbage,
die in wars,
although there are no angels
in the graves.

let it be known that
love doesn’t solve anything,
sex doesn’t solve anything,
the beauty doesn’t solve anything,
the glory doesn’t solve anything.

let it be known that the funerals are stupid,
let it be known that that
the roaches and the rats will be here
after we are gone.

let it be known that
just a few things are important.

let it be known that
that the paintings don’t mean
anything when you are in jail

let it be known that the music
is nothing when you are deaf,
(except Beethoven of course)

let it be known that
the museums
the kindergartens
the monasteries
the bells
are not important.

let it be known that
when my time comes
I will die trivial but beautiful
although
beauty doesn’t solve anything.

now I say
farewell
foolish little
objects.

Author bio:

Peycho Kanev is 28 years old. He loves to listen to sad music while he drinks slowly his beer. His work has been published in Word Riot, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Cemetery, Nerve Cowboy, The Chiron Review, The Guild of Outsider Writers, Spoken War
and many others. His new poetry collection, which is collaboration with the poet Felino Soriano and the Editor Edward Wells, is out now and can be found at Amazon.com. He loves to put the word down and not talking on the cell phone for days. He is nominated for Pushcart Award. He lives in Chicago. Alone.