Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
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.
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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…
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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
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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 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…
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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
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
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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…
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“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…
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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
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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
Daydreaming as a profession 