Posts Tagged ‘Ross Vassilev’

an average morning

by Ross Vassilev



wake up


dribble out the dreams


slash yr wrists


slash yr mind


there’s killers outside

in the sunlight


I get up and peek through the shutters–




it’s empty out there as hope


I turn around

scratch my balls

bang on the ceiling just for fun


there’s dogs from Hell upstairs

and children from the toilets of Hell


I would give my left arm

for one day of peace

or a piece of Brooke Shields when she was 15


the bed is all sweaty


a mourning dove coos


and the killers wait in silence.



generosity from strangers


by Ross Vassilev


one cell of the Weather Underground

was planning on bombing

an officers’ ball

but it went off prematurely

so the townhouse got destroyed

and the only people who got killed

were the three of them


they freed Tim Leary

with a commando-style operation out in California

but Leonard Peltier is still in prison

and so is Mumia

and Abbie Hoffman is gone


the Vietnam War ended almost 40 years ago

and maybe the 4 dead at Kent State

have attained Nirvana by now

so there’s all the time in the world

for prayer beads


opening the doors of consciousness

but no one’s interested anymore

cuz all the jobs went to China

and people are struggling nowadays just

trying to survive


but at least they’re starting to legalize pot now

so if you’re carrying any


please don’t be a selfish bastard.



September morning

by Ross Vassilev



it’s cool and mellow

the sun like a teenage girl bending over

mornings like this

I can forget about everything

the wind rattles the trees

and tells me how butterflies die

I let the sunshine fall on me

like the hands of blonde angels

I make obscene remarks

to young girls on the street

when you’re insane

the sky crumbles like chalk

on the pavement

when you’re insane you’re free

as a crow

as your mind crashes through

Autumn leaves

so scream all you want

at whoever passes by

they can never put the cuffs

on your sweet wandering

schizophrenic soul.

modern romance

by Ross Vassilev


the Romanian girl on my computer

has blue eyes

and long black hair


she puffs on a cigarette

while playing with her nipple


I’m playing with myself


I text her to be careful

she doesn’t burn her pussy

with the cigarette


she giggles…


it’s a cold, wet night



but it’s plenty warm in here.

idle hands

by Ross Vassilev

I hear

the seconds


from my watch

on the nightstand

as I lie in bed


nothing at all.

doing nothing

is what I do best.

high school cheerleaders

are good

at sucking cock

and I’m good

at doing nothing.


I talk

to the faces on the walls.

or I sit

by the window

and stare

at the parking lot.

sometimes I go

for a walk

and give the finger

to complete strangers.

so if you see


wandering the streets

lost and lonely

like some fucking zombie

be a good soul

and offer me

a goddam ride away from here.

green horse

out walking the night

cuz I can’t sleep

cuz the demons won’t let me be

my shoes burning holes into

the screaming sidewalk

the stars are dumb and faceless

cats slink in the shadows

and it’s good to be alone

out here in the cold

better than wrestling with the demons

though I tried imagining

red roses sprouting from the walls;

this town is big enough now

to have its own homeless

the last of the drunks stagger home

I remember one time

when I was on this same street

on a winter afternoon

and the sun was gently

burning through the clouds

like a smoldering cigarette

I saw a dead blackbird

with its black eye staring up at me

as if to say

here’s where the body ends;

yes, I was always the freak

the weirdo

riding the green horse

on the carousel of eternity;

Time is a fat drunk witch

with the face of Buddha

and the hands of the dreaming clock

keep ticking in my brain.

sweet bird of youth

by Ross Liskov

true, I’m going bald in the middle
but I crew-cut my hair real close
so I look young enough
and I’m lean enough so that
when two young girls
(they were about 13 I guess)
passed me in the park the other day
I took my shirt off
they looked away
shy I guess
but anyhow
I got a kick outta showing off
to the young sweeties
and I like to think
maybe I gave them some
masturbation material
just a little gift from me to them.

stoned buddhas
by Ross Liskov

my third eye wanders over
pink sunsets
and emo girls sucking on

and maybe Washington
crossed the Delaware
for this

or maybe they killed the Indians
so Marilyn Monroe
could lift up her skirt
and become
of the dangling breasts
over by the old Ganges
where the body is the vehicle
and Albert Hoffman
is the rider

where brown-skinned girls
with crazy eyes
and radiant smiles
dance round stoned buddhas
in the pure land
of lust

I’ll take that
or any other paradise
I can find…

in the land of the blind
my third eye