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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they didn’t think
about it.
That’s the problem, kids usually
don’t plan ahead,
they live in the moment
They just saw a movie
and wanted
to imitate the actors
because they thought what the
actors did was cool
The actors hunted wild
animals through
the jungle
and to do so they built traps
all over the place
They imitated the actors but
the only prey that fell
in their trap
was their pregnant mother. Using
the back door to
come into the yard
she tripped over the wire
they set and
fell
face first into the
knife blades that stuck out from the
ground as they buried the
handles in
The trap was genius level
The therapist would have to be
so as well
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There…
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There was indeed silence now Oh, and it's been but days since the screams cracked the windows and the thrown bottles stripped the walls of their paint and the curses made the gods cringe and cover their ears The house of madness no longer lived up to its name For she was finally gone and he was left with the echoes "C'mon, dare me to down it!" were her words as she opened the last bottle And his were, "Bitch, you're mad!" "Dare me, motherfucker! Dare me to down this here bottle. You don't think I can, do you? Ah, you slime-gutted piece of shit." "I'm telling you to knock it the fuck out already! I'll bury yer fuckin' eyes in, see if I won't." But she was already pouring down her throat. She had this talent that allowed her to drink without swallowing. Pouring down her throat was like…
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there he was arriving on main street carrying a backpack and a suitcase both stuffed with papers “WELCOME TO THE TOWN OF FORGOTTEN POETS.” said the shadows that watched from the windows of nearby buildings He didn’t like the sound of their voices but he sighed and dragged his tired feet along they were almost as tired as his soul and just as hurt He'll have to live on the streets, for the town was overpopulated
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so this is it then
He stood by the margin of the ravine
looked down
took a deep breath
looked behind him
no shadowy figure reaching
out
no pale silhouette making stop motions
no apparition telling him to
not jump
Of course,
what the hell was he thinking? These
things don’t happen outside
of stories
Stories like the one he was reviewing
on his phone
while driving
with his pregnant wife in the passenger
seat
the crash happened at
the moment he tapped send
and just yesterday he got a response
from the editor
saying it was a great story and they will
definitely publish it
There was no “Thank you” reply from him
just an “I’m sorry” and “I love you” on
his wife’s social media
before taking the leap
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a…
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It became more and more obvious There was a storm inside her growing ever stronger and she sought to terminate it before it was too late It's arguably more difficult to terminate such storms when you're fifteen and still living with your parents so she decided not to share her struggle with them and reached inside her for the eye of the storm with a steel wire she'd kept in a bottle of hand sanitizer for a day and a night Yes, the first raindrops painted the white of the bathtub they were crimson and salty like her tears
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The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it’ll be okay
“He’s a true fighter,” she said. “I know he’ll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He’ll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him.”
“Mam,” said the doctor. “We found rusty fragments
of broken needles stuck in his arm. Now, since
you’re his only relative
I do believe we shall carry out a discussion involving septic shock.
The effects…”
“He’ll make it! I know he will!
He’s a true fighter and a champion.
I believe in him.”
He didn’t make it
but it was fine apparently. When they showed his
body in the morgue, the old lady
didn’t flinch.
Told them that’s not her son.
That was a dead body and her son was alive.
He’d…
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there was a new guy in the park among the homeless He arrived just after the mayor had eradicated all the tents and improvised huts and it was easy to spot him He was the one who always had a book in his hand, always reading "Check out the new guy," they said. "An intellectual. Heh, hey buddy, what you reading that for? Not like you gonna get a degree that'll take your ass outta here anytime soon. Haaahahah!" He was reading his own poems from a time when he was young and his dreams were still alive Today nothing was alive but misery itself
Well, after you write enough and try to publish for long enough you just notice it There is no such thing as good or bad poetry. There's just poetry to which people can relate and poetry to which people can't relate. And that makes all the difference in the world.
like a baby left for hours and hours in a hot car he woke up with a sweaty forehead and a buzz in his temples no room to stretch he got out of the car in his underwear shook his legs and hands rubbed the pain away from his knees and back of the neck There was a bottle of water he got from the park fountain among the litter in the back seat he opened it hot took a sip and swirled it around his mouth spat took another sip swirled spat that’s for dental hygiene He put on pants and a shirt locked the car and walked 50 paces to the nearest public restroom where he removed his shirt and washed his hairy armpits He studied the violet circles under his eyes in the mirror checked his teeth his tongue felt for wax in his ears put on a professional smile went to the public library and the desk by the window was free His smile grew brighter as he sat down and opened the notebook Chapter 86 would be next in the manuscript He looked out the window This writer life was precisely as romantic as he thought it’ll be no more no less
This morning he sent his third part (third time) of poems that we will publish every Wednesday. I personally thank the author who has many followers who value his written work.
j re crivello founder of Masticadores (*)
life’ll smile father punched him lightly in the shoulder and said, "Hey, keep that chin up, buddy. Just know that a time will come when life'll smile at us." Sure, he'd been saying that since forever. That was the earliest and most common memory of him Grinning from ear to ear and saying that a day will come when life'll smile upon them But until that day they'll have to sit in the town square and play their cheap instruments for passersby to drop money in their box Keep that chin up… Oh, father. You can't play the violin holding your chin up And life won't smile if you keep playing it…
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