Poems by Ninko Kirilov

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Pic by Steve Johnson

 

 

Something

I want to tear the sky
with someone’s eyelashes,
to fill the puddles
and drink them dry,
eat mud with virgin blossoms,
ferment the new alchemy
of the skill of being a dog,
to bark at the sheep in myself
and smoke from the chimney of my home.
But something stops me.

I have to sneeze all of my doubts,
to infect the spring sunsets
with the lack of pathetic, to remember
which book to whom I give
and if he doesn’t return it,
to tear mold pages from him,
to burn and swallow them, breath them in
like scales of the evolved fish
of my misery.
But something stops me.

I can “pay it forward”,
rage against the grey coned crows
who look for cylinders of a brocade end,
to be and not to be, to levitate
over the clear and the crimson, over the “musts”,
I can do it. I know that.
But something stops me.
I live on Something Strange.


 

Mornings

I often cry in my sleep.
In the morning the skin around my eyes is dry
and hard.
The gift is that I don’t remember those dreams.
I know, the oceans have no mercy.
And in this ocean
I will drown one day
willingly.


 

Blues

I woke up this morning and asked her for a glass of water.
I woke up this morning and asked her for a glass of water.
She poured me some gasoline and said “Drink that”

When I made it to my bed we were together with my sorrow.
When I made it to my bed we were together with my sorrow.
She kisses great as an old lover.

I grew old in my sleep with some years.
I grew old in my sleep with some years.
The sleep is just a blues – 12 bars of rhymes.

I look into myself as if I’m looking into a flesh wound.
I look into myself as if I’m looking into a flesh wound.
I finish my verse.
And I’m gone.


 

Epiphany

Someone told me Jesus died.
So who am I not to.


 

People

Bad people kill the good ones.
The good ones kill the bad people.

The big finger of the insanity points –
doomed, doomed, doomed.
Rearranging of the globe.
Blood on the ground,
in the eyes,
in the holes from smiles,
under the nails,
in the knows,
in the hair,
Blood on the streets,
on our streets.
People don’t kiss in the corners.
People don’t eat while walking.
People don’t go to the movies or to some play.
People watch TV.
“More about the war – after the commercial break.”

People nail coffins for children.


 

About the Author

Ninko Kirilov was born in 1983 in Bulgaria. He has a major degree in journalism and has some short stories and poems translated into and published in English, Serbian and Montegrin. He has to his credit six books published so far – “Doubles and animals” (2013), “A human amongst people” (2017), “Three plays” (2018), “Rawer” (2019), Falling forever” (2021) and “Other holes too” (2022).