Peycho Kanev writes

Critique of Pure Death

Meandering path in the woods,

disappearing into the oblivion of time

with darkness and sunlight and

little birds seeding the sky.

Always remember: you’re someone

who will become someone else.

And among the trees at night

there’s a different kind of silence,

not like the one in the city

where the neon hisses its way

along the boulevards where

on the corners smoking kindersluts

wait in terror for the morning

to come and to vanish when

the plastic sun licks the white

underbellies of the clouds.

Don’t forget: you’re

next.

The city in its childhood hour

is made of nakedness and first-born light;

I hide inside its bowels from

the years that will follow and

calendars on the walls of the world

screaming deafeningly at damp parks

full of hypodermic teens and

steps that are someone else's,

echoing through the morning fog

just to remind you that

if there are people about, you're alive.

Always remember and

don’t forget: just to be

here and everywhere else.