What an Awful Pleasure

/, Blesok no. 91/What an Awful Pleasure

What an Awful Pleasure

At 8 O’clock
At Central Station
A Stone in the Swamp
Another Stone in the Swamp
Under the Creed"s Mantle
The Tip of My Tongue
What an Awful Pleasure

At Central Station
in the center of the snack joint
the drunk railwaymen
are drinking their twentieth beer…
Boys that hang around
are hitting on Diddy
once again,
Diddy, the beauty behind the buffet;
time and again they raise their glass trumpets
blowing them ardently,
then at the cash register
they search their pockets for small change…
At the end of the workday,
at the endlessness of the workday
the clock stands astride
the NO SMOKING sign.
A cloth cap – downbeat and dejected –
cups a cigarette and blows
the smoke down his sleeve
after a day of glorious, dignified labor…
The militiaman on duty doesn’t drink –
responsibilities, you know.
He shrugs, refusing to kiss either Diddy
or the bottle…

Comrade Yoncho Vulkov Yonchev
is lost again –
he is requested to appear at the dispatcher’s desk…

Failed actors
become spokesmen,
well-to-do bumpkins
become despots,
and the dinosaurs are no different –
part of the universal mutation: Mankind…

Big deal!

Outside, in the moon’s clean plate
the scraps of doggy-bliss salami
are radiating…

The establishment will be swept, comrades!
Time to leave!

The escalators disperse everyone…
And all can move –
down, to the dishes of heaven,
up, to the bell of life.

AuthorRumen Leonidov
2018-08-21T17:22:42+00:00 September 21st, 2013|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 91|0 Comments