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

how to undo it? by Bogdan Dragos

(。◕‿◕。) Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

it's been 28 minutes of sitting on his hand and watching outside the window the hand went numb On better days he's use that hand to please himself, imagining it belonged to somebody else, some cute woman but as it was today he used it to grab the bottle and pour himself another glass of vodka "Thank you," he said after the glass was full. "I'll get my whole body numb tonight. Not only my hand." Already the hand was slowly beginning to recover feeling He didn't like that. Felt like the imaginary friend was being stolen away He gently touched the hand to his face and decided there was too much feeling in it. "No," he said, "don't leave so early." And then placed the hand back under him "I can't stand having you for such short periods of time. I'm so alone. I swear, I will kill my…

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A Cold Hell by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 
⊂( ◉‿◉ )つ 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A close up of a mother and child, dirty and poor, crying and hugging each other
Image Source: Canva

the clouds seemed

to be holding

the sun back

like a slave

with chains of lead

After a night

of heavy snow

the day tried to make

a comeback

and failed

It was 11:00 AM

and dark as evening

and since it was

also cold as hell

they concluded they

were in hell

“But hell is not

forever, mother,” he

said. “I’ll make it outside

of hell. In a place where

every soul has a home

and no one freezes in the

streets like us.”

It was a childish promise

that came from

a child

Unlike his mother and her

purple lips

and faded eyes that looked

towards his face

but not at it,

he was blazing with life

and with rage

He shook his tiny fist

at life’s own

cruelty

and cursed the coldness

of the gods

It was still pathetic

in comparison

with the coldness

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A King David of Our Times – New poem featured in SPILLWORDS

New poem featured in the illustrious SPILLWORDS PRESS!

TITLE: a king David of our times


( ⊃。•́‿•̀。)⊃ Give it a read HERE


Thanks! 

words that hurt by Bogdan Dragos

( ´-ω・) Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

her words awakened
physical pain
in him

the mere sound of them
was like
claws scratching against
his brain

When she's old enough,
a mother can
hurt her son
like she never could in
her youth

Listening to her
now,
he felt like crying

And she wasn't even
cursing him
She just looked around
and then finally set
her eyes on him
and repeated the
same question
"When is he
coming home?"

"But mother, I am home,"
he cried. "It's me!"

But in reply
she would only make a
confused face
and start looking around
again
and ask the same
question again

She was
only 62
and aside from her
mind
everything was healthy
about her

which only meant that
they'll both be
stuck in
this hell
for longer

Years that will
feel like decades

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Împrietenește-te cu singurătatea

( ^◡^)っ ♡ English version HERE!

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

de Bogdan Dragoș

nu-mi amintesc care a fost cel mai
bun sfat
pe care l-am primit de la tatăl meu,
dar cel mai bun sfat pe care
l-am primit de la un
om care nu era tatăl meu
zice așa: 
Împrietenește-te cu singurătatea.

Dacă tu și singurătatea sunteți
dușmani
atunci o să te simți singur

Dar atunci când tu și singurătatea
sunteți prieteni,
o să fii solitar 

Diferența dintre singurătate și 
solitudine
este diferența dintre
un copil naiv care crede că fericirea
lui depinde de alții 
și bătrânul înțelept care înțelege că 
fericirea depinde numai
și numai
de sine

Imagine de carmen camacho de la Pixabay

https://bogdandragos.com/

Volume publicate:

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I Will Never Again Believe What You Say by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 
(ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*✲゚*。⋆ 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A young woman with blood smeared on her face and clothes holding a battered and bloody teddy bear
Image Source: Canva

At 1 AM she screamed

for daddy to

come quick, quick

and look under the bed

There were noises

and growls there,

she told him

Daddy turned the light on

sighed

dropped to his knees

and crawled to the edge of

her bed

Lifted the sheets

looked under

and felt the knife plunge

into his nape

His body dropped to

the floor and

struggled a bit before

giving a final breath

She threw the blanket

over him

and climbed off

dropped to her knees

and looked under the bed

with a grin

“It’s all right,” she said, “you

can come out now.”

But there was

no one

and nothing to

come out

that fucker lied

again!

Just like with the hamster

and then the dog

now it was

her father

What or who

will be next?

She lay down

on her belly

and knocked the butt

of…

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black and white dreams by Bogdan Dragos

 ฅʕ·͡ᴥ·ʔฅ Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

by the time she was done rolling that cigarette it looked like a broken, gnarly twig regardless, she put it between her lips, lit a piece of nacho on fire and used that to light the cigarette and then just watched the nacho burn until the flames reached her fingers “Do you remember when dreams used to have colors?” she asked “Color?” he said, and thought about it. “Yeah, it was back in the days when I was a kid and movies were black and white.” She watched him through a veil of smoke that she thickened by blowing some more. “Wow, you’re, like, old as fuck then.” “Old enough to know there were better times, dear. Way better times. When dreams had color and sound…” “Listen,” she said, “is this a rant on technology and how it fucks our minds an’ all that?” “What? Not at all. I mean…

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Shoot Your Questions at the Abyss by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 
( ๑‾◡‾́) 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

The empty glowing silhouettes of two side posed faces, one white, the other black and stone floors and walls around them
Image Source: Canva

there is one supreme

blissful presence

here

it’s night time

I’m in my element

Freshly awakened

after a day

of sleep

I’m not a vampire

I only used to wish I

were when

I first started living like

this. What can I say, I

was young and playful

Now I know I’m

something

worse than a vampire

My grandmother calls

me a blasphemer

because

God has left day and night

upon this Earth

for work and rest

and I laugh in his face

and piss on his blessing

by using it in

reverse

I sleep in the day

and use the time of

night to

wonder and to ask

why he had created me

the beauty of seeking

answers in the

night is

that you don’t have

to use your voice

writing

will do

You won’t get the

answers, at least I didn’t,

but it feels good…

View original post 72 more words

Exiști în majoritatea timpului

>‿‿◕ English translation HERE!

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

de Bogdan Dragoș

tu nu exiști când
ochii-mi sunt deschiși,
nu exiști când 
sângele nu-mi e otrăvit,
când sufletul mi-e împăciuit,
când stomacul mi-e plin
și când am companie

deci exiști în majoritatea
timpului,
dragă muză

Imagine de Steve Bidmead de la Pixabay 

Volume publicate:

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a matter of days for both by Bogdan Dragos

( ◕ ﻌ ◕ ) Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

this was needed

One more
strong coffee

one more
poem

and then he
would go to
sleep

it was
almost morning

he would sleep
during the day
and
return the next
night
to write
more poems

His lower back
was hurting
It was either the
kidney stones
or
the hemorrhoids
or both
or something entirely
new

Well,
it was all right
A writer writes
and a sick man
suffers
and they are quite
the same

At 44
his wife was 22
years younger than him

She would still
make him coffee
and cook his meals
and even read his poems

The ones that weren’t
about torturing
and murdering women and
children
even got published online

About eleven
of them

He was on
the right path

Success will reach him
earlier than
death will

It was a matter of
days for
both

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