KRISTINA KRUMOVA - POEMS

Kristina Krumova is 29 years old and she lives in Sofia, Bulgaria. She has a Master’s Degree in “Contemporary History” from Sofia University and she was an Editor at New Social Poetry Magazine, (Bulgaria). Her work was published in Ghost City Review, North of Oxford, Red River Review, Ann Arbor Review, The Pangolin Review, Dream Noir, The Conclusion Magazine, Unlikely Stories, Oddball Magazine, The Mad Swirl, Visitant Lit and The Rusty Truck. Kristina Krumova works as a freelance editor and she’s preparing her first poetry manuscript. 

The Cycle

Patience –
taste for life
(“life”, “love”, “heart”, “rose”)
Screw it…

Expectation –
trained dog
with accumulated points
for emotional intelligence 
(“ego”, “feelings”, “be”, “yourself”)
Screw it…

Disappointment –
the joy to imagine
that when someone squeezes your nose
you are actually at your lowest point
("despair", "faith", "power", "I surrender")

And again –
you repeat the cycle
only if there is enough alcohol
("loneliness", "cigarette", "wine", "porn")
Screw it…

​

When You Get Sick
​

When you get sick because of the pain
you don’t have the time to pour the wine into а glass,
what if some of it drips on the chin
it is not vomit, right…

how fast can you drain one bottle?
is the tongue faster than thoughts?
how the numb fingers will find the strength 
to hold the burden of the innocent cigarette
that you will sacrifice in the name 
of Pain?
yet…let’s hope there’s mercy…

you will confess
but tomorrow,
and not on the phone,
at noon you will order beer and tripe soup
and you will celebrate your next purification

Until the next sin…

​

​Some Questions That Shouldn’t be Discussed

I can’t talk
my tiny hands – clumsy and thickish
stretched to the false light of
suns form another dimensions
my slim feet – shaky and curious
are taking a stroll along horizon’s eternity
from the left the dilated pupils of
a few million cousins are staring at me
on the right is the silence of creation

I’m about to find out that God is a psycho 
that He killed the stars
the bees are the lambs of modernity
love is the canine tooth of evolution
conclusions are born prematurely

I learned to listen
my steps lost their virginity
the natural smell of sweat acquired primary eroticism
the horizon doesn’t end with me

I’m about to find out that the Earth is round



​

А Detailed Explanation

There’s no truth
Reality does not exist
Only the pain wakes you up in the morning
Only grief puts you to sleep
In a world drawn by the hand of a lonely child
Engraved in the eyes of a dying animal
Memorized in the consciousness of a wrinkled blind man
There’s no meaning
Do not look for it
Love is rape,
wearing a Venetian mask
Joy is an alcoholic idyll
Compassion – a slumber

I would not call it an impasse
I would call it a choice

​