Poetry is…

Poetry is
More popular online than prose
Who reads anything
Except writers

Poetry is
Not a get rich quick scheme
Or a school report

Poetry is
A dirty old maggot
Dancing to Ricky Martin
In an old drunks’ tavern

Poetry is
Turning up late for class
Shoelaces untied
Reeking of cigarettes

Poetry is
Poetry is
What can it be
Baby feet

Bogdan Tiganov



Don’t stare into the mirror for too long, you’ll go mad.

Does my side view make me look smart with an air of timeless mystique like the portraits of Chekhov.

Or my front view for when my professionalism is too much for you to withstand – I was made for good work.

Or the body shot, in the mirror if poss, post-gym or before the party, my wares polished and sharpened for you. Just for you.

Happy, emanating goodness, I add emotion to your story.

Am I beautiful or ugly like my heroes? Admire me, don’t scroll by.

Bogdan Tiganov


freedom day

take back control
get Brexit done
stay home
protect the NHS
save lives

silenced with noise
politics and social
media politics and
social media the sweetest
pill to swallow

freedom day.

Bogdan Tiganov


The insincerity of words

I read somewhere about the insincerity of words –
writers bullshitting their way through, fake
here lying through the keyboard
masking cowardice with words –
I’m a scared little boy desperate
to woo you with these words.

Beneath all this fluff
I’m a barely functioning idiot, that’s all.

Bogdan Tiganov


New religions

Social media is a religion
gaming is a religion
big tech
the corporate world –
there’s always an altar
po-faced blind faith
and everlasting life.

Bogdan Tiganov


World 2.0

I live in a world where
people are nine-foot tall eunuchs
crouching into tiny white cars,
dipping into bland little flats,
where no one fucks and
thought’s been replaced by
social filters and clickbait…
a world where I stare at a screen, or two,
every single day waiting for the rectangular bastard
to tell me what to do, how, and when.

Bogdan Tiganov


Broken in the middle

There it was mid air
Tried to catch it with my toe
But my toe pulled out,
Smashed another glass.

I got the kitchen roll
And threw it on the water
I got the dustpan got the brush
And dragged my limbs along
Sweeping and picking every last bit
So they don’t scar my boy.

Finally I could go and smoke
When she asked me to do
Something else, something more
I’m just glad this life
Has a beginning, middle, and end.

Bogdan Tiganov


I Was Born Yesterday

Do you know British royalty
and British aristocrats can be
racist? Now you know.

Do you know there was once
a divine project called the
British Empire? Now you know.

Do you know the natives were
enslaved, brainwashed, and
put through the meat grinder?

Now you know. Start waving
your angry finger
at a device of choice.

Do you know that only they
who are ordained by God
can appear on Oprah? Now you know.

Thank you internet,
I know what to think now –
I was born yesterday.

Bogdan Tiganov


Feel-Good Poetry

There’s a trend now
for poetry that’s like
something you’d stick
on a t-shirt or toilet cubicle
next to ‘suck me.’

Feel-good, warm,

And not the good shit.

This loved up soup
brings in the groupies
on Instagram
and the ‘poets’
make a living from
smiling and spunking
in the permanent
neon sunset.

Oh, the remains
of Hollywood happy endings,
brains scrambled into sticky

Bogdan Tiganov

Short stories

What About Feathers?

There was a loud knock. It’s that kind of place. There’s always a noise, something falling to pieces, asking to be repaired.

I was working. Trying to write a novel. I’d been trying for years, decades, but now I’d finally got into the rhythm of it. I’d just passed 1000 words for the day.

I walked around and lit a cigarette. Nothing. Work from home sucks.

“Have you seen this? Come and take a look,” said my wife, Amelia.

Not now, I’m in the middle of a really juicy bit. If I leave now I’ll never be able to recapture the feeling.

“Fine, ok, fine,” I said and mooched over to the living room where she was pointing to the window.

“Do you see this?”

I couldn’t see anything, honestly.

“Can’t you see it?”

I strained my eyes, generally unable to see anything in life other than a laptop screen with a lack of words on it, to see what she was on about. It’s a…

“Pigeon. It’s the outline of a pigeon?”

“Poor thing,” she said.

“Look at the fucking thing!” For some reason I was angry. Was my window scratched? Dented. Broken?

We went to the garden. A cold winter afternoon with a sun like stage 3 cancer. God, shut up.

“The cat must’ve got it,” I said, seeing as there was no dead bird anywhere.

“What about feathers?”

“What about feathers?!” She had this stupid fucking annoying way of asking things.

I looked at the patio. Overgrown lawn. Wild bushes. No feathers.

That night, in bed, turned to the side, I kept thinking about suicide. Not mine, because as Emil Cioran expressed, it’s always too late, but the bird’s. I decided that I should write a scene with an unexpected suicide. A lady with hat and feather boa. She’s got it all, except death.

Bogdan Tiganov