Is there coherence
inside incoherence?
I think I've found it.
'Cheap Hotel Philosopy,' my second poetry collection.
Published on 24th January 2022
134 pages
'Cheap Hotel Philosophy' is a poetry collection that attempts to make the incoherent coherent through rhyme.
Exploring the sacred and the profane, biblical Edens and dirty dive bars in equal measure, 'Cheap Hotel Philosophy' ends the night spilling its vodka on your jeans and asking for a ride home.
In a Universe where the colours of Matisse are more comforting than the word of God, we find a philosophy inspired by Nietzsche that ends up sounding like a cliché pop song.
In this slightly disoriented collection, Teodora Miscov invites readers to relish in the (often botched) attempt of understanding the world through organised thought. What arises, ironically, is the realisation that the incoherent and mystical is where life makes most sense.

Join the writer as she explores the paradoxes of existence, gawping and yawping at the divine and the mundane with equal confusion.
“An endearing, agonising, and sweetly self-aware collection of poems that begins embittered that nothing makes sense but manages, somehow, to see some rhyme and reason in life... even hope.”
Ana A.
Post-modern times make it such that rhyme feels cringeworthy; to look for reason, patterns, meaning, strikes most as blasé. Classicist. Overly optimistic. Maybe even delusional. "God is dead" is as trite a statement as two-for-one milk advertisements.
​
But can we really help ourselves from looking for deeper meanings to the day to day? Can we really entertain the possibility of our lives being insignificant? Are we dust in a mire of dust that no God is around to sweep?​​​
​
​'Cheap Hotel Philosophy' is my attempt to counter the R. Mutt urinal. Whether I succeeded or not, I guess, is up to each reader to decide.
The angels are laughing, but I don’t know why
The arrogant, happy, privileged circle
God has his favourites, and it’s never I
To his perimeter I’m always — external
I raise my voice and God darts his silent gaze
His dagger of pride, interdiction, and reprimand
Me and the fallen have had to find our own ways
To make up an existence — outside his command
So I live amid my own Gods and Monsters
An actor of my own small mythology
I wonder why they’re still singing the gospels
And who can still love their inaccessible melody
This is my philosophy, awake, stuttering, dancing
Outside of the dominion of Heaven or Hell
Morally in danger of always collapsing
Less of a kingdom and more of a dirty hotel
From my unmade bed I can still sometimes hear it
The call of perfection, of God and his angels
Sometimes even I tire of this cheap linen
And of always explaining myself to these strangers
But I like the motorists, they’re nice enough
And I get a free drink or two now and then
God promises much more, but I call his bluff
Always ending my evenings with a hearty ‘Amen.’
