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.
young people, they think nobody has the same thoughts as them they take great pride in some made up originality as if really nobody ever thought up scenarios of themselves descending some rope from some helicopter and dropping in the middle of enemy forces and starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an shit and killing all the bad guys while not taking one bullet One man army or there’s those other thoughts of being simply the greatest at some sport and being admired and envied for it also, the thoughts of sex in all its forms the thoughts of mindless violence of saving the day of being somewhere else and doing something else all kinds of thoughts and all the minds who think them label them as original but they’re not original they’re every young person’s thoughts and me, I also have thoughts I consider original I think of…
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like it’s been painted a million
times, the room
seemed smaller
narrower
suffocating. The
window too small, the
door too sturdy,
ceiling too low
and the generator of
the illusion
stood across from her on the bed
He’s been around for a year
and six months
Result of her first
and surely last
non-aborted pregnancy
It was like all the rage and bitterness
of the previous three
remained in her womb as residue
and had seeped into this
fourth one
who would punish her for the rest of her
life
But of course this too
was just an illusion, it was only in her mind,
remnant of a failed
creative writing career…
Across from her on the bed
stood but a normal child
but gods, it was more than enough
for someone who wanted none
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour…
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so, you're writing poetry or, well, at least you pretend to and you pretend you're good at it and the people want more from you nice but how come none of what you write is uplifting stuff? if anything, you've got more depressing shit than uplifting stuff and you expect to get popular with that? get real! you've got to inspire people you've got to write motivational stuff, uplifting, hope giving stuff, upbeat verses brimming with intelligence and radiating brilliance your words are like confetti on a page why are they so scattered? what poem is this? why does it start with a lowercase letter? are you dumb? Don't you know how to write? you're unbelievable, man, unbelievable and don't even mention the nonexistence of rhymes, pfff, lame... this is not a goddamn poem, fool it's child's mockery and you should grow up and stop pretending you're doing this for…
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Wasn’t the best house for
a five-year-old
It was just a small room above the
bar his mother worked in
and it was open until late at night
and he couldn’t sleep because
of the noise
He imagined savages going
at each other, fighting to the death,
and then laughing in celebration
of victory
and he wasn’t too far from the truth
His mother would come
into the room from time to time
to get something or
to leave something in her locker
She had no time for him
And lately she kept coming with
blood on her clothes
He imagined she must clean up after
all those savages, pick
their dead bodies up
and bury them
It was unfair. Her only reward was
a spit’s worth of flour
that she was too tired to cook
with. So
she just snorted it through her nose
and went…
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I am a sidewalk one upon whom your feet dragged heavy and wet and tired and I wonder where you are going and where you're coming from I look up constantly and am tired of soles and legs and panties and dropped coins and litter and indifference Too many people, too few dogs and cats and some rats at night But you are different. You wear no shoes and your little feet are cold and so delicate and in your wake you are painting me with a trail of blood you are not in the mood to receive compliments, I know. But I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful I hope he never catches you I wish there was something I could do about it
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“Have you ever kissed a lover
so hard
you chipped a tooth?”
she asked
with a grin that
revealed more than one
chipped tooth
He shook his head. “No, and I
really don’t intend
to.”
Well, that’s what you get
for hitting
on a girl you meet
in the yard of the local asylum. But
she said she was a
nurse.
“Anyway,” he said. “If this is what happened
to you… What happened
to him? I mean,
after the kiss.”
“Oh, there were many,
many kisses actually,” she said. “He’s
dead now.”
“What? He died?”
“Well, yeah, dogs don’t
live that much. Compared to humans
I mean.”
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a…
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it wasn’t morning yet but he woke up to the sounds of cheering and applause He looked around and saw shadowy figures with elongated faces and bright, white eyes staring at him “Congratulations, they said. You have awakened.” “What in the hell?” he said, looking around startled. “Who are you?” “The messengers,” replied the shadows. “We are very pleased to announce that you may collect your prize whenever you are ready. You’ve earned it.” “What? What did I do?” “You awakened. In a world of sleepers you woke up and are therefore eligible for ascension. You might follow us through the hole in the ceiling whenever you are ready. All that’s left to do here is to melt the shackle.” “What?” he said Then one of the shadows have him a small bottle that smelled strongly of gasoline and a box of matches The other shadows pointed to his desk, to all the papers stacked on it and under it and all around it “Those are my poems,” he said “Indeed. They represent everything that keeps you tied to this world. Your shackle. Burn your shackle and melt it away so you can ascend and take flight. The time has come.” “I worked all my life to write those poems,” he said “Yes, you did. But now that you are awake you see that they’re all in vain. For nothing is real on this plane. It’s all a dream, of course. You have designed it pretty nice. A simple dream spent entirely in the confines of a narrow room with low ceiling. Drinking and smoking and writing all day long and late into the night. It’s a beautiful dream. No family, no friends, no communication with the outside world, and no desire for any. You’ve thus taken a shortcut to awakening, but it’s by no means illegal. You’re still eligible for ascension. So, whenever you’re ready, we are.” He watched the shadows The shadows watched him He reached out for the gasoline and matches, looked over to the desk and the stacks of paper Looked for a long time Closed his eyes and went back to sleep The shadows were gone by the morning but they left the gasoline and matches behind He got out of bed went to the desk by the window opened the blinds and started writing another poem
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"When you no longer see the shadow of what kept you strong it's time to let go." Those would be the last words he wrote at the back of the notebook he filled with thoughts and rants and poems ‘Thoughts That Come From The Heart’ was the title and the work will remain for long after he'd pass away At least that was the plan But alas, as he gave his final breath the cigarette rolled from his fingers to the desk and all the way down on the shaggy carpet It was a matter of minutes until the whole room became a snapshot from the inferno It's almost like the gods want to send a message. They want to say that poets rarely if ever have happy endings I'm starting to believe that more and more as the days pass
the other night she went to sleep listening to subliminal audios and woke up in the morning saying, “I am birds. Many, many birds trapped together in a bag of silk. This thing that the world looks at and calls my body is but a bag of silk that traps birds inside. I am not the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I am the birds inside the bag. And I must get out!” She ran into the bathroom Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,” he said, shaking his head. “To think that she could’ve been a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. She could’ve been anything. But she chose to study creative writing in college. Now she’s a poetess... and we are no more than characters lost in her verses.”
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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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