Other Poems by:

Aryan Kaganof

Aryan Kaganof's Website

365 days later (the anniversary blues)

babe the next time i see you
i'll give you back your spoon
and the other debris that i saved

ah the next time i see you i'll run my hand through your hair
and whisper your name
thirty three times
one for each time that you shot me
or i shot you

ah babe how you got me
but that was not me
lying dead on the floor in a pool of red roses
that i'd brought to the anniversary party
but delivered to the wrong door

and i guess it's only a year
but it might as well be ten or a hundred
and we both know the miracle won't come
and we both know that over is over
done is done
we both lost
nobody won

well that's the high cost of loving i guess
and if love doesn't kill you
it teaches you to bury your heart instead

so the next time i see you
i'll give you back your spoon
and the rest of the debris i've saved

Poetic License

I've been for my poetic license twice 
Both times failed alley docking 
The first time I crashed the poem 
Into the white poles 
The second time the poem 
Rolled forward 
While I was in 


I'm the Dead Man from Durban 
Sitting in Chicco's Art Café 
Drinking double espresso 
My waitress today is Taryn the triplet 
She was born on Hitler's birthday 
Her eyes are the colour of Heaven 

Across Main Road Elvis 
the Budget Hairstylist 
Is smiling 
He's watching Main Road 
Waiting for the Hurricane 
To blow job his wig 

I'm the Phoenix from Durban 
Going through my ashes 
It's Monday in Chicco's 
My waitress is Taryn 

The Inheritance

3 dollars that my dad gave me: 


then he said 

"99% of winning is in not giving up 
and the rest is just pure luck"  

The Wind Is Always Now

When I feel the sun 
It's already past tense 
Eight minutes ago's central heating 
But the wind is always now 

When I howl at the moon 
She only hears me 
A little later 
But the wind is always now 

Killing Time

I do my work in the sleazy bars. 
I observe the decay. 
I make notes in my compact book. 
The pages are unlined. 
I'm waiting for a melody that will sail into my head and take me away from this ghetto. 

Molly behind the bar is holding back her tears. Charlene's out in the tables, she's been there 
for years. 
There's a neon sign opposite me that says "magic", 
right now I'm not sure what that means. Molly leans over the greasy bar counter and asks 
me, "Are you a baby?" 
She might be right. 
I should learn a new language, that would be the way to escape me. 

Outside on the pavement a man with one leg scrapes a cigarette up from the gutter. 
I watch him looking up at the moon but she pretends she can't see him. 
She doesn't want to know him anymore, claims he hasn't yet paid  his Tombstone Dues. 
My dad said "You can't save every beggar with your ten rand notes, and small change is not 
How many shirts can you peel off your back before you become one of those you thought 
you were helping?" 
Now Molly behind the bar is on her thirteenth cigarette. 
All of these working girls are dying so very slowly. 
Fading from glory. 
And everything I write tonight is merely a ruse to deafen the blues that you left when you 
left me. 
Molly behind the bar lights up cigarette fourteen, glances at me and she smiles but the 
look in her eyes gives it away, she's slowly dying. 
I wonder if she sees that same look in mine. 
Well whatever, I'm sitting here in Saul's Burger Saloon quietly killing this beer. 
Soon I'll kill another. 
That might help me forget that you left me. 

And I still don't know why you left. 


My muse and my tongue 
Were kissing 

My fingers and my pen 
Were taking dictation 

When it was all over 
I called the debris 

A poem 


The bar was closed 
The lights turned low 
Once again Mr. Right had not appeared 
So all the available girls 
Had sacrificed their 
Fates worse than death 
For a subscription to 
The premature 

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