The Muse’s Bad Touch – New poetry collection by Bogdan Dragos

Here it is. 
THE MUSE'S BAD TOUCH


A collection of dark poems highlighting the toxic and deadly relationship between poet and muse.


DISCLAIMER: suitable only for a mature audience.


D' you like the cover? I designed it myself  ∩(・ω・)∩ 


Check out the free sample poems (and maybe leave a review). Thanks! 


I don't wanna say that the poems contained in this book are dark. It would sound pretentious right off the bat. But, yeah, between dark and light, you know already where they stand.

Featured post

Play the Tendons like Violin Cords in the Cold Night by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy
(▔▀ ‿ ▀ )ლ ▂▂⌇

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A muscular, shirtless man with his back towards the camera and a knife raised with both hands at his neck level
Image Source: Snappa

that guitar is useless in

his hands now

He spent over ten thousand

hours playing

It’s all he does, really

He has all the time

in the world

after the accident that

rendered his legs

useless

He sits in bed or in

the wheelchair all day

and plays the guitar

but it’s all useless

He’s lacking the fire

in his eyes

All his songs are the

same song

A sad tune

And the lyrics are all in

his mind

and they’re darker than his

eyes

Colder

The other day his

mother found a

knife in his room,

under the mattress

He said the guitar wasn’t

enough anymore

The guitar was fine so far

because the cords

brought feeling

to his fingers

but now that the fingers

had gone completely numb

with thick skin

he wanted to

pick up the violin

for a change

-BOGDAN DRAGOS

Bogdan Dragos…

View original post 52 more words

Bogdan Dragos

Horror Sleaze Trash

fruit flies and eternal love

sunny day outside
streets full
of people seeking water
and cold beers

overcast day inside
the cold, irregular walls
of the basement 
in the abandoned building
The clouds are alive
and very annoying

She slaps his forehead
with a sloppy hand 
soaked in vomit

“Ouch!” he screams

And she says, “I can’t stand
these fucking 
fruit flies. Why must 
they follow everywhere we go?”

He turns around 
on the wool blanket and 
shoves away a few empty bottles
of cheap wine
and 
drops his head onto
her naked lap. “Because, baby, we’re
putrid. You and I, we’re both
dead on the inside
and out. And the fruit flies
love the smell
and taste of our bodies. Especially
when they come 
together and sweat a lot.”

His hand grabs at
her upper thigh
and the fingers 
tap playfully along the 
piano-key-like cut marks
that adorn it

View original post 333 more words

static

she looks up at me with 
eyes hidden, almost locked,
behind 
thick bars of hair
that reaches all the way to 
her small nose

Hair discolored like
dry straw,
second in paleness only
to her ghostly face

She doesn’t stare too much
because there 
are other things to see
in the room

She moves 
on. Not 
knowing that I also stared
at her. Into her soul

I’ve spotted an unquenched
cry there

The easiest to
recognize is the cry of loss
and that’s what I saw there

paired with
the cry of want

She wants to get away
from here
Far, far away. She wants to go
and never stop. Wants
to travel into 
forever

and I’d like to
take her 
there

But alas,
I am stuck here onto
this wall

frozen in time

I'm a static 
painting

And my cold
words 
void of any vibration
will never reach her

I have to make my peace
with it. Yeah, some
people just don’t read
poetry. And even if
they do, what are the chances 
they’d read mine? 

Wow, what a fool I can be at times
But, well, at least
I have my dreams
and myself to laugh at 

You don’t need much else
in eternity

a man doesn’t need much to cling to life by Bodgan Dragos

Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all about him and wood above But this was so far from hell Hell was a thing of the past now Now he had her by his side She was still sleeping in her rugged sleeping bag For the past few days they slept under the cabin to avoid being ambushed inside He knew she wouldn’t be by his side for long. The infection in her mouth was really getting out of control putting her one outrageous fever away from death This was the world today A warm wasteland full of predators and no medical help of any kind. Kill or be killed. Law of the jungle. And so on He liked to believe he adapted Too many didn’t His luck stood in not having that much of a fine life…

View original post 436 more words

Strategy for Productive Writing by Bogdan Dragos

Image Source: Snappa “I tried to hire my mentally ill brother,” he said. “I gave him a knife. He’s forbidden to touch them but I gave him one anyways and told him to use it on me. That was my strategy for productive writing. My brother would stand by the door and I told him […]

Strategy for Productive Writing by Bogdan Dragos

fasting for muses by Bogdan Dragos

well it’s been about four days of fasting Four days of eating nothing but smoke from his cigarettes so it was difficult to tell whether the woman who sat in his bathtub and smoked some of his cigarettes and watched him writing on his desk was real or not “Of course I’m real, you dumbass!” […]

fasting for muses by Bogdan Dragos

Commercials on a Loop by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out MasticadoresIndia and find more writings to enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

An old model black colored TV with static across its screen
Image Source: Snappa

they didn’t even know

who the kid watching TV in the

other room was

but maybe that was

not their number one problem

“You goddamn bitch,” he said. “Tell me!

Tell me you didn’t

steal any from me, so I can say

I don’t believe you. C’mon, tell me!”

“Fuck you,” she said. “You lost it.”

“I knew you’d find some

excuse, some lie. Cuz you’re one lying bitch,

that’s what you are.”

“Hey, what about the tenant?”

“Who?”

“The tenant, deepshit! From the other

room. You’d rather believe

I stole it, not him?”

“What the…? Bitch, that’s your son. He’s

like five. He don’t pay no rent.”

“What? We gotta kick ‘im out then!”

“Aha! So you did

take my shit! You’re so high you don’t

recognize your own son. Again!”

They were louder than

the TV

but it didn’t matter. This TV had one

channel…

View original post 112 more words

don’t trade the madness by Bogdan Dragos

Check out Gobblers / Masticadores and find more writings to enjoy ( ˘ ͜ʖ ˘) 

Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

“You need help,” they told him. “Get some therapy, some counseling, something. Reach out, man, you need help.” He would raise his glass at such advice and say, “Oh, hell yeah, I need all the help I can get. Thanks.” But he would never actually reach for it He’d reach for the closest bottle and pour himself another drink and maybe reach for some leg or breast or ass By this time the ladies knew he wasn’t a bum, even though he looked like one with his ragged, soiled green suit and his worn out shoes his cobweb-like greasy hair and the unkempt beard that looked like he was chewing on a dead, rotting octopus He was loaded with cash despite all that And the explanation was simple He was a poet He laughed at all those well-meaning advisers and their concerns He would return to his home in the…

View original post 104 more words

TV Remote by Bogdan Dragos

Check out MasticadoresIndia and find more writings to enjoy (=•́ܫ•̀=)

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

Image Source: Snappa

a thief had entered the house

and all

he stole

was the TV remote

Perhaps some prankster kid

because at times

the TV would act strange. So he’s probably

close and messing with them

there was only the two of them

home. The old man with

dementia and his

daughter, not a very young woman herself

unable to speak,

the old man

began to cry because he couldn’t

watch his favorite

cartoons on TV

and he cried and cried and kept crying

about it

It was too much

and, the daughter thought, it was

about time. About time she

left the past behind and

started her

own life. She was 39, childless,

no husband, no boyfriend, nothing.

Over the next few days

she arranged for the old man

to be placed into foster care. He was still

crying.

Sacrifices had to be made. She was wiping her

View original post 116 more words

the living with the living, the dead with the dead

The building had 60 stories
and he was 60 years old
Still cleaning it from bottom to top
for the past 35 years

one thing remained unchanged
as time passed

the coldness

Every surface he’d ever touch would
be as cold as the glass
of a window in the winter

And the people who
worked in the building were
pale and cold as vampires

He forgot how it was to be saluted
or how it was to salute
and get a reply

No one talked to the janitor
No one knew his name

No one cared

There were no souls in this isolated
monolith
that stood in the center
overlooking other monoliths

Hell is cold
and monotonous
and plays constant factory noises
or keyboard noises
and exudes smoke

Even the plants were made of
plastic and their flowers
and leaves had to be sprayed with alcohol
and wiped with a rag

Real plants wouldn’t
accept such treatment

They would punish you with their death
and that should be enough

But not for those pale vampires

The only thing alive
was him, the janitor
who imagined jazz music playing in
his mind as he scrubbed the tiles

and one mushroom that grew behind one of the
toilets in the women’s bathroom from
a used pad

He left it there for days
It was his little secret, his little friend
in this world of soulless beings

It was life sprouting against
impossible odds

Life in hell

It was something to look up to
every day

Something to kneel before and say
hello to and sing jazz to
and even pat gently with the finger

He promised himself that the day that
mushroom died
he would retire

So far it was still alive
Still sprouting spores that he
inhaled
and tasted with his tongue after
rubbing it gently with his finger

Living beings
stick together
regardless of species

Just like the dead do

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: