Seasons in the uterus

by Peycho Kanev

Lying on the floor with one bottle of wine,
listening to sonatas from Brahms and Scarlatti
from the old gramophone on the nightstand

eyes closed
cigarette in the crooked mouth
hands behind the head

wondering where all the dreams are -

desires for millions and seventeen year old virgins,
first class cigars and ice-cream cones, tasty food and
easy life

evaporating in the stratosphere with the speed of
brain pierced by the bullet.

my daddy’s gun under the couch

my siege is over.