Petar Kanev – Without the impossible I would be blind

“ The miracle of life is of increasing interest to me, „explains his recent apocalyptic verses, the university lecturer Dr. Petar Kanev, a cultural, religious and social anthropologist, and a prominent environmentalist. His poetry is in light years far from the spirit of our time, and is more like a replica of the dead and the erasians of the 90s and of the people who were then learning to live, die and love. The words are drowning in the latest translations of Petar Kanevs’ poems. 



I’m writing in rhymes because I think in rhymes.
I ruin the rhymes because my thoughts stifle me.
I write long, because I should finish the abstracts beyond in the next world.
I do not keep pace because my feelings are drunk.
I can not write a white verse because I’m actually a nigger.
As a little boy I hated to manifest.
And I loved baklava, boza and Turkish delights.
I like to put my glass on the edge of the table.
In year 1991 I missed the Party system.
I only love parties in which friends are torn from hugs.
The abyss calls me to jump into it.
I can not stand clothes on my own.
I remain silent when they ask me to speak out
but I scream when everybody keeps silent.
I like kissing in the square.
Radi tells me I’m frantic.
What is my last wish?
Without the impossible I would be blind.
I love a fallen plane in a meadow among cows
where everyone kisses everybody



My words are drowning
in my own words.
The Savior on the Beach
should be like Miss Marple,
to distinguish who is drowning,
but which one – the murderer.



The raven landed on the microphone.
Microphone thumps in the ears.
I’m pushing my ego with all of my strength.
The camera falls and breaks
in ladies legs with heels and pantyhose.
I’m about to open the jar.
The killroy’s pickles are screaming.
I ate my duck heart with a spoon.
Three poets have dropped their children under the table.
Four babies bark naked on the stage.
The door of the toilet is made of heavy wood.
I open it, but there are ravens on the cistern.
Behind the bar three bartenders sign
The Istanbul Convention.
John Lennon is out of the speaker.
Kripple in site.
More and never Never. More and never Never.
My heart – is eaten by the woody ones.
The glass scraps in my throat.
Not without My Daughter!
The jar closes.



Sherlock in the marsh.
I’m drowning. Spot.
Gray cells have small hands.
If they do not laugh, do not cry, do not embrace –
They would be paralyzed, drowned
in a panic-mud.
Mud on my shoes. Exit.-
To teach my mind to be hands –
to cut onion –
Big deal – leek –
under my diaphragm –
out of the swamp –
sad dog.
Tear. Dripped.
On the most excellent
in Europe.



They crack my heart.
The pain –
to the bones.
With my finger I paint flowers on the glass,
on which is written



I am a star in the rural theater
of the village of Dare-dere.
I eat my laurels
in veal boiled.
I postpone my blessing,
I count flies,
Mumbling a fake swan song.
I play the French Grape in Stratiev’s Play „Ragazza pear”
but I always dreamed of playing Ragazza pear herself.
At the end of the play, Ragazza is an old pear,
booed by the young Pamela bulb.
I do not know what caught me from opening the Bible
over the corpse of Agent Pineaplle, the chairman of the KGB
and I made a talk about sex:
„The Apostle Paul says that our bodies are the Lord’s temple.
We are all walking churches built of proteins.
Our beauty is non-terrestrial.
Our passion for God’s beauty
is called „sex.“
Last time, I had sex in my head
with a first-year student six years ago
on Facebook.
My temple was desolate in sadness as a nursing home.
In the mosque on the slope, Muezins sounds.
The Prophet Mohammed has said that whoever saved a person,
has saved all mankind,
but whoever kills one has killed all people.
After a glass of hemlock, paralysis is inevitable.
My lips are still in the liquid of the bitter cup
and hesitated to open.
Would he kills all the egoes,
the one who is killing himself?
I signed the Master Program Fee
in the Grand Master’s office.
I took the blade of the pen and struck it
into my heart.
I sent my love abroad.
Now my descendants will live uni-call.
Wine flowed from my laptop on stage.
I see Socrates and Plato
to applaud straight in the audience.
And me – I am – I am



Do not buy, sell, steal,
treat your own garden
without pesticides and surrogates
in organic writing.
The poem must be an organism,
but it is very unpleasant
when it snore when it sweat
and when it struggles
in the toilet.
Turn your ethics into thinking,
so do not be constipated.
Your thoughts give rise to strong feelings –
otherwise it is a diarrhea.
Feel the truth
and before you throw it back,
drink only by the dream.
But if you really want to be real –
loving –
it’s better to sing „Little White Rabbit“
in the bathroom.
Peter Stupel died in misery.
Almost no one was at his funeral.
I’ve always been naive.
I love the eyes of the deer
and his bunny bad happened.
I love the fireflies.
I’m always late.
And here we are now, entertaining.
Raven, rejoice and be glad!
We are not born to be plaster gnomes.



And I like to tell me I’m crazy and naive.
That’s because I’m white.


New Asocial Poetry magazine