Featuring Ross Vassilev

they got what they wanted

my dad was a drunk asshole

my mom’s dad was a drunk asshole

they did everything they could think of

to drive me and my mom

insane, make sure we failed in life

the 2 assholes are dead now

but they got what they wanted

me and my mom have been mentally ill

to one degree or another

for 35 years now

and we’re stuck here

in piece of shit America

surviving as best we can

as best we can.

don’t look for us poets ...

cuz you’ll never find us …

we’re hiding in the groves

in the shadows

in the night, the moon

like peeping-Toms

or stalkers that follow you round

the streets of the city.

We write because the world is

what it is.

We write because of the world

and in spite of it.

We write to spite

our families

the friends we never had

and ourselves.

We write cuz it’s something to do

while gangs shoot each other

in American cities

and the troops go off to fight

for the oil companies.

(fuck it,

maybe I should learn guitar?)

“self-radicalized”

I got away

from the Bulgarian

pederasts

now I just have to

get away

from you American

trailer trash

it helps to be

“self-radicalized”

(communist

not Islamist)

I need to start

buying guns.

Americans

fat

beer-drinking

football-watching

flag-waving

troops-honoring

trailer trash

who get into fights at Walmart

who go to restaurants

and spend all evening yelling

who watch America’s Got Talent

who let their large vicious dogs

roam the streets

who hate immigrants (like me)

and want to build a wall on the border--

what ugly hole in the universe

did you crawl out of?

and how do I shove you back in there?

babykillers

my fingers seem to have

a mind of their own

always doing what they want to

not what I tell them to do

but I do something 100 times

and get the hang of it

I can play blues

and rockabilly rhythms well enough

(you only need one note

at a time if you want)

if I get good enough maybe

someday I can join a punk band

and we’ll write songs about

the US military

and other babykillers.

Read more of Ross Vassilev’s work here: 

https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2014/11/featuring-poet-ross-vassilev.html

Featuring the poet Ross Vassilev

a fate worse than death 

when you're 
workin 
for 
minimum 
wage 
you're workin 
for food 
and shelter 
and when 
you're workin 
for food 
and shelter 
you're a slave 

I used to slave 
away 
at factories 
where 
the lighting 
was so poor 
you could 
barely 
keep 
your hands 
outta the 
machinery 

they used to 
make me 
run 40 hrs. 
a week 
in places 
where it 
got so hot 
I thought 
I'd end up 
drowning 
in my own 
sweat 

every day 
felt like 
a slow death 
but somehow
I survived

so take it
from me:
minimum 
wage 
is modern- 
day 
slavery 
and if 
you don't 
believe me 
then go
and try it
yourself 
sometime.



dusk

night falling over the city
I see the red lights
of phantom cars
and the people inside
don't know me
I wonder who I am myself
why I'm here
what it's all for
and where do the homeless
go when it gets cold
at night?
and maybe this is where
the spirit drifts
when the body dies
where it's always
ethereal dusk
always warm enough
and nobody ever needs
any blankets.



Ixion

some of us
end up in hell
and some of us
are born to it
and for the rest of you
stupid shits
reading all this:
there's the terror
and the joy
of all our marvelous
cackling laughter.



carpe diem

I’m often left alone
staring at my white hands
wondering what
they’re trying to say
there’s so much
sitting around
staring at the clouds
while dogs bark
down the street—
staring at the blue sky
while the wind blows
through the cold sunlight
and naked branches—
the digital clock
on my desk has no hands
just red neon numbers
that stare back at me
stupidly
and whoever said
carpe diem
was really full of shit
didn’t know
a damn thing about
anything
cuz it’s mostly just
sitting around
waiting for nuclear war
for the sun to fall
for the guardians of
national security
to come and take me
away—



HELP!

the hippies 
who dreamt
of a starry 
new 
consciousness 
of LSD 
Shankar 
and prayer beads 
now lie 
trampled in 
the gutters 
steamrolled
by the military- 
industrial 
zombieplex 
run over by 
the armored limo 
of reality 
in the 
rabid-dog alleys 
of America 
where 
the only truth 
is the Greenback 
the only virtue 
is war 
and the only sin 
is compassion—
the hippies 
of yesteryear 
walk round
in a daze
wondering
what the fuck 
happened 
to the dream,

man? 
where the fuck 
did it go?



the American dead in Afghanistan

the white trash let their dogs run around
in the street
I can't even go for a walk anymore
there's American flags everywhere
the other day
I was sitting at a picnic table
when two of them sat down
at the other end
after listening to their white trash conversation
for a while
I was forced to get up
and go sit somewhere else—
another indignity
I wondered what I ever did to the Gods
to make them punish me so
when I got home
I turned on my PC
read about the latest American dead in Afghanistan
that made me feel a bit better.