Bored, board some train of thought,

destination unannounced. Reality

creaks across TV backwards,

competing with, out in parking lots,

lots and lots of harlots. The phone rings;

pick up; some dumb whore

screeching in my ear I must buy more.

Hang up, sure as hung up I am

on combing through the honey of yet

a bit more money. Ask myself,

gazing out the window at birds

jerk worms from the grass: That phone

on the TV, inside me, nextdoor to insanity

or some other not quite reality

passing now by? Onto the

screen leaps a guy

training on me a gun.

This a problem, evil about to be begun,

or the answer to nothing better to do?

Recall then for a bit of peace and quiet

I am so long overdue. Snap in the horse’s mouth

a bit like the buy the whore hot to sell.

Cramming everyone, even a bored me,

onto this winding train

huffing and puffing straight to hell.

Why, oh why, if our lot be suffering,

must it be a lot of suffering?

And the dumb whore turns to me,

into myself dumbly turning.

Willie Smith

Art Poetry


Owen Winn


The West is afraid

The people shook
Death wipes his mouth
Your mortgage
Kids and car lease
Darkness everlasting
Overtime and
Kissing the boss’s
Lock the doors
Silent dogs

Bogdan Tiganov


Dad’s dead

Dad, cut himself out
of every photograph
so one day I would forget him

Dad, cradling me as a baby
Dad, holding a tennis racquet
Dad, playing football in the park
Dad, watching Jackie Chan movies
Dad, who turned his back on me

A stone is always a stone
and my dad’s dead

Bogdan Tiganov



They take your spirit your soul
they take your ambition
and guts.

It doesn’t happen overnight
you don’t even notice it
until one day
you wake up
you’re 40
and very tired
constantly bored
with a giant tear
inside your head.

Bogdan Tiganov


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