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Georgi Staykov, 30 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Sofia, Bulgaria. We are grateful for the participation and wish it success.

Lentil soup

I stir the lentil soup and hate the way it smells
Of adolescent smiles, hunk of bread, and poverty
The yellow flowers on my mother’s chunky pot 
Wilt under the nihilistic sands of time
I recall the sunlight on her worn-out, marred face
Piercing the curtains in the match-box kitchen
There was no room for softness, save the tail
Of her bright, zestful, blue eyes
The linoleum squelches, crushed downwards underneath 
The dominion of my pillow hand-me-down slippers
The drunken living-room shrieks drew near
I stir the lentil soup and hate the way it tastes
Of childhood pain, neglected love, and bruises
The living-room is lifeless.

Lentil is exquisite torture for the destitute:
It does not satisfy the cultivated palates.
Thrice illuminated by half-shut blinds,
Half-dark floor, half-dark ceiling, half-dark walls
Snuggled up against the concrete city giants, half-life.

The window swallows my extended arms,
Fingers stretched into oblivion; I left the kitchen.

Deep in the mountains, nestled in the eastern sunny peaks
Decadent ambrosia softly permeates her lustrous lips
The blue of her sweater melted down the latter, lazy icicles
Sunlight lingered underneath her feet, drip by drip
She woke up the frozen soil, and snowdrops turned to tulips
Just go ahead – inscribe Psyche and Aphrodite’s headstone
Trounced by the celestial divinity of her mortal cheekbone 
Laughter that echoes through endless meadows
Bathing in green, caressing the sunshine
Voice that flows through the air, gently 
Arousing thoughts of subduedness:
‘We are immiscible’, she whispers
‘I know’, I thought, ‘the morning mountain dew will perish
At the touch of mottled, powdery beach’

Have you tried sprinkling water on a cast iron hotplate?
An unabridged sizzling symphony of divergence
Sewing wings on an ant may change its shape
But won’t make it soar like a white-headed thunderbolt
My soul aches for a destination I can see but cannot grasp
My mind shuts off at the sorrow of reality, and
Sinks deep into the blueness of your sweater
I long for peace I used to find in slumber,
Now I toss and turn like the sea
Where agony is briefly paused but never ceases.

I grew up in a home where lentil soup pot
Was a reward – hard earned and hard fought.
Now I’ve finally abandoned darkness,
Chase a single lovely hue:
The warm and fuzzy sweater blue.


The Ashen Knight

Nobody knows the ruptures lacerating my skin
It’s the blood under my own fingertips, I swallow
Tear-shaped drops and the salt ashens my tongue
Just say the word and I’ll know you again
Under and over, just say the word and I’ll
Take on the world to leave it behind.
Your eyes elude me and my memory fades
The strength in me wanes, and nobody knows
That I’ve forgotten the first words we ever spoke
You’ve been sentenced to oblivion by the hands
Of the one whom you held; held you, and let go
Torment is dripping bit by bit, as I sit here alone
Between the walls you once lay, on the bed you
Once wept, and crept, and slept, and leapt
Into Lethe.

Oh, hear here and near, the cadence of the bell
Ask not for whom the bell tolls because it tolls
For thee, me, and all mankind
The garden your feet tread on merges your past
And my future. As green as the sea, as dark as a tomb
We’re haunted by what’s already inside
Ripped open and sewn back together, ragged dolls
In the hands of a counterfeit Creator
Nobody knows we’ll take on the world,
Just say the word. Just say the word.
My fingers are woven in plea, a silent scream
For a thunderstorm to wash clean a conscience 
A conscience that bathes in air – sweet and softened
And pushes me, urges me, demands me to live
I can taste the pain, the pain in your eyes, calling
My name from the outside, under my terrace of 
Condescension and cruelty enamoured with disdain
Yet the threads of my heart wear and tear at the
Sound of your voice, and the deafening silence
Of your head held up asking and waiting for my
Absolution – small, human, insignificant, futile
Pardon. Mercy that never came, and doomed
Your bones to the frost. The garden is gone, and green
There’s no more. Now there’s concrete drowning 
Our souls, and winter bites your naked head
You and I, we were made to endure but torment is
Rough; just say the word. Just say you’re hurt.

There’s a distant voice gliding through the wind
Gales of doom whisper aftermath of obliteration
Of you, me, and all we could ever be.
The breadcrumbs on your collar remind the earth
Of the stale bread, the hunk of salvation I laid in your hand
When I bypassed your lifeless body and thumping soul
Turning my back on redemption. For you, and for me.
I used to call on the Moon to dampen my sorrow
The sun weakened by the curse on my lips
A day was destined to come when I’d be lessened
When fate had finished weaving the tragedy of
A demigod hero with the strength of an ant 
Can you hear my voice cracking under the weight of
The world, as it crumbles down and bloodies my head?
Nobody knows the ruptures lacerating my spirit
It’s the hurt under my own mind that I cannot swallow.