BOGDAN TIGANOV

To win? To lose?

What for, if the world will forget us anyway.

Milosz

There is no guaranteed reason to live,

Every day nothing makes sense, yet you hang,

Write a poem, drink coffee,

Kiss someone on the lips, if you’re lucky…

And when you were born

Your mother loved the relief,

There is no love like that anymore.

Leaning over his arm bruising the wall

To her left, his tearful face begging

Her confident beauty to kneel.

She stands tall whispering conclusions

But the problems possess his spine

As I come home from work saying nothing.

Bought another house

Closer to the river

Where I can see the peasants

Drown.

God bless them…

Bought another villa

Next to the other one

And right next door to the

President.

He’s a laugh and a

Half…

Looking to buy a palace

Beneath the heavens

Where the only way is

Down.

(Don’t be jealous,

Come and visit,

Bring gifts,

Credit cards, loans,

Real good deals.)

Will find the money

To renovate my homes,

My sweet sweet homes,

Terrible,

Yes,

But it’s so hard being poor,

It is it really is

Impossible to get by

Oh my poor poor children:

Devastating.

And

You’ll never know

The pain, the true true pain

Of living with only

Four homes, three cars and

Two vineyards, four dogs,

Three cats, two cockatoos

And a wife.

When my soul is crushed

When I have nothing

When I am desperate

When I’ve been waiting for the truth

Far too long

I turn to God.

I turn to God to lift me, sentence me,

Resurrect me, reconstruct my

Ways of seeing, defend me,

Help me, reposition me, silence the

Thoughts which terrorise the spirit.

When the night is never-ending

And the people unforgiving

Untouchable, chemical,

When the light breaks into

Shards

I turn to God.

- Oh God, oh Lord, Almighty save me,

Dispel my loneliness, my aggression,

Punish the dragons in my belly

With waterfalls and the still -

When the end is nigh

And I don’t understand (not now, not ever)

They’ve all left

And I’m addicted to liquor

By God

I turn to God

When I feel depressed

When my loved ones hate me

When the sun’s stopped smiling

When the waters run dry

When the banks are empty

I turn to God

When I’m at my worst

When others see me finished,

A wreck, ghost-like, doomed,

When the singer’s dead

I turn to God.

I turn to God for judgement and

For what is best, what is left,

In hope, in resignation, I pray

Therefore for pity, acceptance,

Consolation before I write the masterpiece

Before I paint the Sistine Chapel

Before the dawn pulls the tear

From my eye

Before the drape falling fast the crack

That’s left is a vision of God.

I wonder if Keats

Felt like crunching a stranger’s head

In a vice or cracking the hell out of

Some nonchalant ignorant slob.

I wonder if Keats,

Whilst puking blood,

Trying to publish a book,

Copying Shakespeare

By the light of the tomb,

Felt like falling

And piling the earth on

Or maybe chop his little hands

And stick them down his throat

In order to stop breathing.

Probably not,

But, I swear to you,

I am oblivious to truth.

Poetry, I thought, is far removed

From this man I see every day,

Bearded redhead sitting on a bench

Staring into space, hunched over

Outside Gregg’s hurried munching

Of something given to him.

This man has it all (or nothing)

And he tells and retells the story of loss

Plainly, sincerely, unapologetically.

He does what he does and

Where and how does he sleep at night?

Is there a light nearby?

I’ve seen him share the bench with others,

Perhaps a fellow homeless friend

Smoking a cigarette angled away,

Their knees never touching and yet

Shoulders so relaxed

And free –

Yes the pains of living

Have soldered skin and sinew into blaring

Expressions of saintliness.

Such a man makes immortal

The battles in one’s mind

And a bloody reality that flashes by.

We live in separate rooms

Each to their own, fair enough,

Equals.

We take what we need and when we need it,

Whether it’s a slice of pizza or a slice of affection

And we don’t give back. Democracy.

We walk down the street like morons

Not knowing what to do and where to go

Or whether to escape like Gauguin.

And secretly or openly we discuss escape

Like we discussed the meal last night,

Quick and microwavable.

What will we do

There

When the only thing we can’t escape

Is us?

Who’s going to love us and accept us

When we’ve spent our time

Denying

Us?

And all the beauty, the landscapes, the sunsets,

They won’t make much sense to us,

Just like modern art,

Vision, principles or dignity.

Welcome to London, friends.

We won’t ever talk as I’ve forgotten how to

And we won’t ever feel, no, not really,

As we’ve paid out our feelings daily,

Whored out our emotions for survival,

Given everything in return for something.