May 28



I had not noticed the patterns on the floor.

I had not noticed the photos on the wall.

I did not hear the melodies, none at all.


I don't recall the day's events.

No image pops, nothing I can explain.


I can describe with thorough details a vivid story by my mind.

I can trust myself to write it rhymed.


I do remember sitting on a chair.

I did not notice my partner's color of the hair.

I know we looked deep into each other's eyes,

before I caught a glimpse of something new and we depart.


I was wearing small high heels.

I took them off, I did not seek the feels.


So here I am.

I am looking at the walls,

I am staring at the floor.


I try to put it in my head, to lock it in my brain.

I try to paint the image clear,

the chairs around the room, the people, all that I can hear.


But when I sit to write it down, all I do is jump back in and drown.


New Posts
  • "Our Streets Don’t Cross" I reached out a hand and the tips of her fingers timidly brushed my palm. What is it that’s revealed to her in people’s palms that confuses her so? Do they clench in a fist about to deal a blow? Do their fingers spread out like the legs of a spider to show her the money they hold? I cannot imagine her smiling. Have words only ever reached her though bared teeth? She sleeps rough, yet her clothes look clean, cleaner than mine, actually: does she take showers in strangers’ bathrooms until every trace of them is washed away? Our streets don’t cross and our underpasses are empty, each in a different way. But can we imagine that one day things could be different? Could she hug her child in the mornings and fall asleep with him every evening? Could she go to a movie and laugh along with everyone else? Could I send her a link to a song? But this is not important. I only hope she can breathe whenever she wants to. I stopped thinking about it and decided to open the window to let in the fresh air. No wind rushed in. At least we suffocate the same. Written originally in Bulgarian, translated by Vladimir Poleganov. The whole project is here:
  • Industrial waste Passing through Метал , we’re watching patches of sky through empty factory windows. Or abstract colour patches – they’re carpets, clothes out to dry – showing signs of lives persisting in the apartment blocks trackside. * Crossed hammers on a rooftop are what’s left of former glories spelled out in one last slogan enduring from those times: the dignity of labour in the mines. * Precisely on the hour we’re underground. Water pumps, cutters, extractor fans are just so much relic machinery. We’re reading museum labels. The light at the end of this tunnel is another searing June day. For now we’re out of the sun, cool in these galleries that once were hot and noisy as hell – a hell all but one hope had abandoned. * Crushed cans, rolling bottles, rubbish strewn across a podium – they’re overlooked by poets and their famous words: exhortations to build new worlds from a century back or more. It’s as if they might rise above remains of a new economy – the one that shut factories, mines, left populations adrift in apartment blocks skirting a town in search of its fresh purpose. Pernik, 22 June 2019
  • Guys, this is the book I told you about. If you Google it, there are some pages of it uploaded to get a glimpse: It is published in Bulgarian too, Упражнения по стил, I have it somewhere or maybe I've borrowed it to someone, I have no idea. But it's a great book!

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