I am tired of midnight wasps
that can't stop counting the roadkill and
the horizons smothered by blabbering mountains.
The bones of cannibal ancestors have been cooling off
in the company of age-old suns. Sunflowers shudder in the dark.
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Ivan Peledov
Aside from the Flowers
Babylon-sized spirits of silent birds, winds, and clouds
cover every stone and blade of grass you can see.
They banish all meaning from the valleys and canyons,
they look for hidden eternities of dead tree branches,
for dancing trunks in the wooden afterlife on the hills,
and discarded life forms stuck in the brittle twigs.
How often do you expect to walk this dusty path,
hearing the posthumous music of renegade souls
and greetings of the neighbors under the ever gentle sun?
Before and After
We talk about snowflakes and death
in the cold, bottomless rooms of itinerant prairie dogs.
Some doors and windows are really butterflies in disguise.
You can’t open them without killing the little things.
They help to keep the emptiness and the dust intact.
Wasted centuries and bogus UFOs distort their wings,
but look at the birds of the sun and their feeders -
brimming with wine.
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Ivan PeledovPoetry by Ivan Peledov: Places They Don’t Mind
Twisted alphabets of winds and forests slightly change with each mile one walks until they become pure nonsense like time and space in the twilight composed of countless suicidal bicycles. Clouds and leaves cover the sky like too many slovenly mothers, and travelers happily discard their pasts absorbing the dreams of bottled water.