BOGOMIL POEM

Decent fellows are easy to be loved.
The magic is to love bad natures.
With one of them - the worst of all,
to share till end your bottom stivers.

Your look to blacken, and the feast,
to stick your gulp, as well the morsel.
And in the nights, when blank he feels,
to blame you’ve given him an apple.

To love you – not the soul, just body!
To tear it ravenously from your heart.
To want you wildly - cursed to barren -
no birth to give, except his child…

And by your own to lock in cages,
your choice - the key of win to fling.
To fondle him so deep through lattice,
when comes to you to watch in calm.

And you keep mum! Although ignites,
blows up above the gloaming even.
Up to the time the worst decides
to soothe you, then he’ll burst in weeping.

A tear-drop for once he uttered,
he’s doomed to kneel – a holly, kind…
Then you could leave, without a flutter.
Decent fellows are easy to be loved.

 

Kamelia KONDOVA

 

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SUBMISSION

Seems never intends yet to finish

(great many watchdogs do hurl down)

this boisterous prodigy – living. 

And yet I’m still licking for bone… 

 

Blowing out dreams through ants golden, thin, tiny,

the sunshine gnaw at my corpse, pretty well disguised,

while its strengths above upsurges fleshshabby,

in obsequious manner to this burglary hardly reacts.

 

So long was a ruler, didn’t slash any heads.

Me myselflots troubles upon brought

(famines satiated, have tortured surfeits)

in the world of gorges among the broads .

 

In chains from horde of fatted dwarfs have been,

teeth off my smile as they have knocked –

selfsame till scrambling my knees, I succeed

to furbish them, with thin ends of the cloak.

Saddled women, brothers in blood

drowned down in my wine, in my giggle.

My very daughters stoned me first,

then sons bounced to kick me single.

 

Before stirring with eyebrow of mine a stone secret,

with bite washes me out through his tongue rag

seduced by my wife foredoomed to death slitting

on time out of the scaffold who I had dragged.

I passed through the ocean with team of starving sharks.

With sores I fed them – a kind of job to fulfill.

They condoned me, yet my chains have been spitted out,

‘cause stuffed up with haughtiness’ carcass had been.

 

I pastured loony cows, overindulged their filament,

to their horns I have tied a motley cradle

and by ringing stars with head, many much banged

in bewitching dirt without air I wallowed.

 

Today I’m Lord’s brother - in kelly spend nights.

The Moon by red lips, in the minute roams

with lukewarm wintry affectation smacks mine

and twist ass towards other dwelling-place.

 

Tzvetan BOSHEV – LAMIATA

 

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CELESTIAL BACCHANALIAS

 

Above my head the Heaven does not calm down,

does not grow dark the eye of Heaven –

                                            raves Earth, and sky,

fiddles with Frencs,prunes tundras away;

bamboo slashes, tumbles people in graves;  

pounces on as cavalry malicious wasps and stings,

                                             coils up to squadrons bees;

skins brands, awns wrings from, spins sickles and scythes,

                                               scours through breast-drill,

the sugar crunches – melts reeds, breaths extorts, saps salt,

hisses through nostrils, into alveoli deserts crams – the air wheezes,  

                      into emphysemas of the Siberian marshlands thrusts; 

boils up in fiery bubbles, blood spits -  blood whangs and sweat bites,

hisses with tracing machete – bamboos, and rears, bulrush is cracking,

                                          and boiled up marls towards Nile starts dragging;

shoves burning horns in mire, hoofs cleaves, heels peels;

bamboo shears, rays revolves, camel’s sinews in bows ties,

knits us lashes of crocodiles’ sinews, spins out krotals’ hide;

drags up packsaddles yellow thirst, dumps down a heaven in my brain,

                                inside inferno’s intestines winds around, pulls, bends,

                                                                                                hurls down a hell;

slogs hundred fierce cudgels on my naked body, heads crunches, thighs disjoints,

                                               wherever turns hits, strikes, drums beats, tramples on;

with demented raves, rams them in Judas hooks,                                                           

                                      curses, yells and rates;                                                  

goes whoring in souls and beds with them,

   above the sages why chills and pines away,

     the mundane Magi strangled with garrotta who?

 

Valeri STANKOV

 

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SUNSHINES IN CAMELS’ HUMPS

 

In my throttle slaves-Burlak are howling -

up to whitening white tonsils and yell bark, shivers me scraggy tremor,

turn up lips tick, gulp swelter, roar camel’s rusty stove pipes,

in my mind stir vessels herds and desert furies are swinging boats, 

I gear up, nail them – to drag out my frozen smacks,

                                                      where the hell, they would go – haul and tug,

my camels saliva make, spit yellow gall and suck brimstone,

sprinkle hard mire and shells’ holds along Nile stench to a carrion,

sunshines multiply, tang of a hollow – drums, cauldron glass-ware,

burst with keen salt – kaleidoscopes, go rancid –

                                                                    flow to yellow cheeses, 

burns me blazing shirt,

bitters and fumes through nostrils sunstroke blood,

extract from eyes sties, rumbles in ears – bloody sun flares,

three bands of dinosaurs lift cervixes in me, expire and keep mum,

osculums, tracheas, spleens of creature on barbecues are baking –

sloughs mortal gravy in embers trickle down, leaks the mucus, onslime does hiss,

in Terra Incognita on terracotta twitters,

snort sunshines, smoke out, knock off embrasures of dead –

                                                                       dump down crates chillis yellow salt,

knead their backbones, crackle discopathies, molars do squeak,

sunshines heap up rag-bags with toothy emeries and scrape by raspers,

scours the silicone’s itch – its dry deuce clawing, augers smooth,

the sweat is glistening, dazzles the eyes, in salt salt’s motes shake in rock’ sweat,

scrubs in dry measly sunshine – itchiness through angular sand is scratching,

from beaten to death counters Sahara talus descends, a dust its sandpaper strips off,

rasps to bone stubble, hoof Saharas –

                                                        the silicons in tracheas do wheeze.

 

Valeri STANKOV

 

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WIDOWS’ RIVERS IN SIBERIA

 

Blessed are deceased! –

turn round on flank after living, in Siberian tundras pretty well laced.

They, dead men do not sleep, creak through theeth and vertebrae,

float on whipped camels in greenstreamed landslides

                                                                                 from Eniseyies,

                                                                                      Yauzies, Lenies, Irtishies –

Sahara’s roasting omelettes though? – sulphur bobbins in Ghiblies vortexes stench,

above me raise vesicas, mushroom Hiroshima-like,

in olive are boiling and cracking Oecumenical eggs,

the sunshine mixes up olives with fiery spike -

                                              on rags a sweat in glair trickles,

sprinkles, and hauls, and strikes, and heaps, crushes lumps sault,

on dunes dumps down upon my poor hunches

                                            the Lord’s catchpenny aureole,

hiss eyelids, stink genders – thorn crackled I’m gonna raze,    

a camel deceived among bristly flames in brambles

                                                                          I do blaze! –

extinguishes me dream, I erupt cry, middays me memory,

start running across my mom’s three waters – rivers immortal,

protrude with reversed gristles, and dangle, do cradle – unbodied trunks –

                                                                                           in loops concrete,

do mould up tibiae, and chicken bones, in desert fish eyes wide-opened,

                                                                             the legs of Siberian rivers,

inside tundra-like Sahara tundras curses on chrest

                                                                             its maternity mangers –

grass widows – descended slovens streamed on –

                    without their Murometz viragoes love-made

they spur forward one and the same wolf’s howing –

for the sake of parturition, and christening, and commemoration,

                                                                              and the very End,

                                                                                 shake them erotic vexation,

shut up red caviar in sand’s abyss dried-up,

sucked them Kazulkum’s, Karakum’s and Egipt’s backsets –

does curdle their milk, themselves have been drunk, swallowed while grinding,

                                     then beard’s marshes, exaggerated expectorate out, 

currents plough rivers, crack splitted – to pieces rend,

                                                                           aortas dry up in cervixes –

frogs stutter, ophidians loosen helical capillary vessels,

itching, smarting, gaping in pupils purulent sores –

unattainable, non-approachable oceans even from Evrasian nomads,

the rivers fade – dye Bentlies and Rovers,

                           Defenders and Rangers of Universe,

golden cupolas, bells give kicking to Russian rivers,

                                                                    wrongly Equator do face,

Kazulkum, Tar, Karakum are them sucking,

hanging and rocking under the osiers, damnation take them! -

                                           their salt indurated became in the maternal milk’ salt,

the rivers rasp moss, and lichens, and scale fishes,

sands drill in breadless working-bees – ophidians in harness.

Who did hear their laments, well?

Who did hear Siberian rivers’ wails?

 

Valeri STANKOV

 

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LUNAR CAUSIC

 

Where did they without me wind, where are you, my Via pontici,

                                                              where dye songbirds for dream,

will batter me sunshine – I’m not a fowl’s thorn,

it grinds a lunar causic, upon my bald pate rattles dry flints,

sacks lunar causic pours forth chopped off stump,

                                                    forth rushed off dream, forth sores –

                                                         heals in Nabokov and Kashpirovski way,

sparkles lashes – wades in peat, in peat and trunk cutter,

torch-lamp is dazzling, melts quivers of electrodes, ropes stretches tight,

tosses on the pontoon sheaves of incandescent irons,

                                                                             twists wisps of fitments,

tallow bursts – smoke cabels, straps before rendind oppress,

crunch, lash, melt bakelites,

sheet metal whimpers, rubbers fume – crackle sunstroked welds –

                                                                         silt up me cancerous smoke,

rips up knickers and kindle our blazing shirts above the Pyramides,

sunshines rage in Giza – apoplectic hordes of dusty suns

                                                                       Egypt tundras creep on,

at seven odds and three cups of brandy reduce to ashes

                                                                       Alexandrian library,

wade in posses, chop through crags of Ural,

traverse windfall forests – threadbare baskets drag up –

          unraveled stork's nests swish sparkles, and smoke,

sunshine descend, draw near, rush deep in tundras of unbounded Russia,

snort in disreputable pubs and til recoil – sunshines-Burlaks –

                                                  ropes, shores slip on, Irtishies drag –

Chebdars, Angars, Yausi, Dnesters, Dnepers, Eniseias, Lenies, as well.

Who cares, the hell for this noisy hubbub?

 

Valeri STANKOV

 

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SAHARA SUNSHINE ABOVE KAMCHATKA

 

Glacial whirlwinds erupt the prickly suns –

                    Kazulkum wads for Siberian muteness,

Sahara diapers for decrepit nomads and camels,

sunshines on  broiler, on smoke barbecue in Siberia –

                                                                          Sahara gnawed ribs sheer,

dried up to grubs in twelve inferno cellers,

shape free-style wrestling – non-statute recruit battue,

not feasible our voluptuous escapes –

perilous, girdled with thistly wire, through escorts slovenly goad Universes,

corners have been searched, at each kilometer, bark dogs at one meter,

daring gates are dream and remembrance – and hollow desert dust,

rend the shorts, bandage as well, rip sole-leather, bloom plimsolls

and trail the ballet shoes at divisions’ parade of guilty degenerates –

Yosif Dzugarashvili’ thumping soldiers – dad Stalin,

the Universes rend through disorders for the sake of unattained gulp freedom –

oh, yeah, we have been pretty young and stupid,

for impossible flights we have received thousand of staffs –

our back was cleft directly, through our mouth the horizons have beaten with a rein.

Poles extinguish fires in blazing rivers, fires swallow the oceans –

and becomes a sweet one cold and salty, at crystals crisps,

                                                                         oecumenical, galaxy water!

Water? Ohhhhhhhhh, yeaaah! Wate-eeee-r! –

                          crackle, break from swelter Egypt and Kamchatka,

hauls the sunshine onto the embers hunchbacked durmasts oak and beech,

squats and heats, decants coals, sands assails, unleashes ashes,

bursts with the cotton, alights, singes, scorches hole,

                                                    pierces my shirt – my second cramped skin.

Who, the hell, about anything figs?

 

Valeri STANKOV

 

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PYRAMIDS’ CLERK

 

Howl in my mind as Carpathian wolves –

without cleaver and scissors my brain mince, belches out sunshine inferno –

sets out the plasma through me and magma crawls,

jolt to a tremor, to infernos strips off, to Demoses creeps,

to Babylon ethnos throngs along – hurricanes, typhoons, tornados,

                                                            not Friday Men with swayed bells,

not primates as well, not animated monkeys, not hundred-heads circus pythons,

not six billion Australopythecus – Eurasia beneath the sunshine pulls down! –

Eurasia murmurs to Niagaras, Eniseias and Popocatepetls,

                                          to Dnestrs, and Irtyshes, and Zambezies grovels –

                                                                               rushed whirlpools of tear-drops,

marched off the nought towards desert tundras Kalaharita, Saharas –

what sort of a Saturday and a saint and bloody Sundays,

                                             what kind of Good Fridays and whatever poetries thereabouts,

what type of trochees, hexameters, verges and amphibrachs, what damn five dough?

 

Mankind rushes in me from a yellow-grey Ararat photo,

trails processions countless deceaseds and wretches alive –

                                                                stench old men, women burlaped –

                         mothers and sisters in law, aunts, all  mob of a kinswomen,

gurgles, pours out mangy offspring, whined cats, poodles –

sinister tumults, in finery of three plies swanky ear-rings –

for christening, and wedding, and a death – in three chain-gangs them rocking!

 

A rascal, galaxy drunkard, a roamer and a king – misfit,

did sunshine-mower, with hair jagged saber my steppe garlands? –

dumps down myself, inside deep swells –

    asphalt does knock off, basalt does melt,

tramples as steam-roller, crumples lawns, gravel thrashes,

                                                                                 dries limes’ tendrils,

whistle awns, thunder horns, resounds with timbals, jolts in temple collection plates,

the gold from domes scrapes off, drink up, scatters ghoulish treasures, 

inside hypothalamuses drum’s beating, mounds pleats, crags slides off –

                                                                       immortal bull in bullfight bucks –

in bow death-bed patellas at arena sticks,

brings up Enisei of tears -  a corporal wild with his whistle chases us,

the waders  peep on drill ground in swelter, the sunshine time reverses –

Saint Elias has been fig, but still is one and the same –

snow is coming, wolf lifts hind paw together with snare and spits on prickle,

                                                                     snow-driftsrelent, ice crackles,

summers detonate – and towards chests with ammonia the Bickford cord creeps,

hoops full of dynamite casks and rips off brimstone cobbles, wicks ignites,

and autumns pile up doleful mud – and dance with swords

                                                       chops chestnut-trees’ crowns drooping,

redwoods dream creaky Alaskas

                         and in Alamut frost from dread the baobabs their trunks shiver,

birches strip off white pelts, poplars haul the shaggy heavens,

protrude, do wither – barrack and galaxy besoms,

                                                         bound through winds rust-eaten,

kilometers interminable weeping willows,

overhung upon Kama and Yauza, suspended – childless grannies,

disheveled leafs’ falls storms a whirlwind of mendicant’s ball –

whereas we – pyramid handworkers, fans of Hanti-Mansiysk,

                                sweep their diminished hurricanes at the parade-ground –

and steaming heaps sunshine lights in my spirit,

glazed at arid poles and dead verdure of chlorophyll.

 

Valeri STANKOV

 

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THE GANG