If I were a song, I’d come up

at sunset onto the porch.

Occupy the rocker. Crack

the digits, knuckle by knuckle.

Smooth my lap, eying

the evening star touch your heart.

Wouldn’t stick around long.

Back and forth, forth and back,

slow enough to sip from the fifth; between

wobbling to the mosquito, the swallow,

the bat, hoops of smoke. Just as

the fireflies begin in chartreuse to spell your name,

and the June bugs pop their noses against the screen,

I’d go with the indigo dying to go black,

where the stars and the crickets elbow the melody out,

but not before the rhythm sets up echoes

of sweet, of nothing, of nothing sweet at all;

and the worm of a foot impossibly falling writhes.

I’d tithe the ear, tax the step, the better

to pay the night back with all the savings of death.

Willie Smith


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




Out on the bay in a boat fishing.

Ballgame on the radio.

Home team in the ninth

battling from behind.

Big one about to bite.

Watch keeping perfect time.

Check in the mail.

Wife at home,

roasting beef to a tee.

Gravy boat on the table brimful.  

Golf tomorrow ineluctable.

He smiles into the wake –

half-open eyes on the line half-focused,

hands folded over paunch, adequate

gold in mouth –

half-dreaming at his own wake

the jig never up.

Willie Smith


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



I been conked on the bean.

Been on the cabeza banged.

Bonked on the coconut.

Skull-whacked; booted in the brains;

had the daylights kicked outta me.

While some days, no lid in sight, it rains.

Once knew a squirrel named Fuck Nose;

because his name was, well, who the fuck knows?

And that squirrel, you see, should you think

I’m just some kinda nut, was me.

And might you fall to wondering, yeah,

maybe Phil, maybe Bert, who the fuck knows

but maybe I do be some kinda nut.

I been flogged on the noggin,                                                           

beat on the ear drum.

Till I a humble stumbling bumbler be. 

But now I must ask, how come your candy ass,

anonymous as any minnie mouse,

down here with the rest of us dead,

got such a God Almighty swelled head?

Willie Smith




You & I

Could hear bugs

Fuck & scream & curse & eat & fart & defecate

Would we want to stay in their world?


Marc Ash