Sometimes
the night is soft.

A dream of children.
They say: "An Angel has touched them"

I'm sitting and looking at you. I don't count
the daily stones.
I forget about those
who in the morning
with brushes sharpen
the teeth - white ones
(they're looking for death).
I forgot about those
who in the morning
with soap wash
the hands - the white ones
(they're looking for death).
I forgot about those
who in the morning
with ink recurve
the eyes - the serene ones.
(they're looking for death).

Oh, my daughter!
The night is soft.

The original:

Седя и те гледам

Понякога
нощта е мека.

Сън на деца.
Казват: „ Докоснал ги Ангел”

Седя и те гледам. Не броя
дневните камъни.
Забравям за тези,
които в утрото
със четки изострят
зъбите –белите
( те търсят смърт).
Забравям за тези,
които в утрото
със сапуни умиват
ръцете – нощните
( те търсят смърт).
Забравям за тези,
които в утрото
със тушове извиват
очите – ясните
( те търсят смърт).

О, дъще моя!
Мека е нощта.

*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

It's better this way--
Infinitely gracious through some colossal mistake of philosophy,
Fists bleeding crumbs and spent cartridges but no, not here
Not even heaped in trembling awful coarse and remnant parts
So I gulp my spent errors - hid in the corner cloaked and dripping,
All chin-slicked rivers and dead raw mouthfuls my
Open-jaw distention retching light and dread obscenity.
And already I'm done - the earth is too rich and your face is too much
And my skull is not a crown
And my eyes are not a crown and
My fingers, stretched in nets of elegant blue recurve all casual magnetism
Slow repose and measured coronas of flesh and revelled refraction
But no, still not a crown
Not even down here where the rainclouds cough
And as I lift my face and tongue all wrapped all very strange in
Feathers and claws and elegant uniforms still no still no ah! here there's nothing.
But the maps are not a science and never you promised me never no
Never, not even as we stretched and turned in revelled liquid bursts of languid sanity.
My skull's a cracked chariot, never not a crown
And it never could it hold, not even for a moment,
Even a broken-down notion of you.

please..?

not often will you get me to toss my hat in the ring and dance a jig and do it as carefree and upset, and well, run the gambit of real emotions and motions of thought as they truly and in the moment bloom for view and place no filter in between the me , windows roiled down and you. so..

If you have it, then post it ,type it up, ( like I said, spelling, yes I **** at it and will totally ***** it all up)  but maybe the honesty of the moment can cause one less to find me so loathsome and just maybe remind them that some of us dudes are not interested in testing the macheesmoe of a guy, and actually wish and hope success finds and smiles on you, even though you a side too, cause I am not out to take yours not critique hows you does it and makes it ryhm the rhythms that are your kingdoms and families, friends and good **** ends and interests. and **** it, you know this by now. and I understand all things have a time they shine and that time comes more than a few times in any mans life for more than he  find that time a changing of life thing. so hope I recurve a link to that diatribe of what boys and random thoughts, that I did openly say, ***** it, here, now let us see how bad I blew it. much love and well, only human and a stumbling dance of chance seems the time I tap my knee told and bump my elbows into all my not so funny bones and fumble about all goofy eyed and were pushed the hell does anyone get ugly ads feet like that , and all. smile, cause I am.

We intertwine like softwing birds:
Another sign my heart's reversed

In sweet recurve. Each beat is yours,
Pumping wine through leaflet doors

For evermore. This sacred space,
Lover's sighs and rosehip lace

And feathers - oh! Let's fly, let's fly...
Let's leave it blessed and seize the sky.

Somewhere, as we breathe, an archeress stretches her shoulders
giving way to her bow, crossing in accuracy, hitting no aim at all—
her arrow wanders with the wind amongst a desert of emeralds
then settles as a thorn in a flora until it’s taken out of its home—
and reacquainted with recurve again to find flight somewhere else.

Micron thin recurve spines
Guided down the grooves in the bones
Pulling your sadness through the veins that follow the strings stinging to your toes

White powder
Glistens in the moon
Spreading light.
Sap away your stomach
Ulcer
Festering
Hole burned
Altering
Your smile strips

Paint plummets
On the top of your foot

Left alone two days
The paint dried
Tears didn't

The fence around your neck
Holding high your chin and head
Squeezes a throat
Door
Cry
Gates bashed with bleached
Red

Don't want a soul  to hop out the opening .
Hang the ghost sheet in the closet
Use a hanger put your body on it
Then hang the bones and meat next to the *****

Cut the sod
 24 inches wide
Dig deep only 2 feet
5 foot long and crumpled
Pieced perfectly for feeding

My eyes try to close
as tepid sweat stratifies on my clothes.
With cold feet and a hot head,
I struggle against the bed.
Although it comes to me rarely,
the tempest feeling of tingling insensitivity,
beautifully disgusting, is quite bittersweet.
The night should be simple,
yet it’s too brutal and holds me ungentle.
And so I pop pills like pimples
to give tranquility to my mental.

They’re not enough. It’s never enough.
One cup, just one since I’m already up.
One drink turns into two and I don’t feel rough.
But I feel...an implore for more. I wouldn’t bluff,
another gulp, another gulp, and I feel stuffed
interestingly enough. But I feel… handcuffed
with both pitiful pleasure and passionate pain,
the drinks are starting to drown my brain.

I fall down under the surface,
where the thunder can’t make me nervous.
Where I can’t sunder my purpose,
where I wonder what my worth is,
wearing wonder fiery as a furnace.
Hoping to plunder my brain’s service
with a hunger to recurve this
surly slumber of unbound defervesce.

These dreams beckon me to come play and see
a weightless joy, peace, even glee
without burden. But suddenly I only awake to see
complacency; ugly gluttony keeps me company.
My emotional darkness, despair, despondency,
countered by my own chaotic nepenthe,
gives me sad servitude disguised as lying liberty.
The turmoil in my thoughts twists, turns
like mazes as my mind mends, burns
deeper, deeper, deeper down.
Just to sleep, I turn into a clown,
holding a bee for honey as it stings me.