Poetry is
More popular online than prose
Who reads anything
Except writers
Poetry is
Not a get rich quick scheme
Or a school report
F
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
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
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
Social media is a religion
gaming is a religion
big tech
the corporate world –
there’s always an altar
po-faced blind faith
money
hope
and everlasting life.
Bogdan Tiganov
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thought’s been replaced by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
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
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
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,
quasi-philosophical
shit.
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
pudding.
Bogdan Tiganov
she told me a story
of wandering the earth
set forth against forces
larger than her
she walked neighborhoods
night and day
and told me she
encountered
hissing deer
and
ducks raping
ducks
i didn’t know
what to say
and soon
after that
we parted
on the drive home
i fell asleep
and when i awoke
i was in my driveway
there were no ducks around
and
i was
thankful for
that.
Tohm Bakelas
