there have been too many fights lately she was a musician and she put it as, “Darling, we need to change the tune.” He was a writer and he shot her and then himself
peace was never an option
broken toy
it was dark and hot and every breath entered with salty sweat inside the nose the mouth was gagged and the whole head covered by a black trash bag with two very small holes, unaligned with her nostrils Her skin was itchy all over but there was no scratching with hands and feet bound to the chair She didn’t realize that she was in hyperventilation and it was making things worse After the four hours it took him to come back to the basement he found the greatest disappointment of his life He found her dead There’s no feeling like paying good money for a toy only to bring it home and find that it’s broken before you get to play with it He broke down and cried for a whole hour as he sat on her dead lap and caressed her hair and kissed her gagged mouth and sucked the snot from her nose She was beautiful too Weeks later he was unable to forget her He carried her eyeball inside his mouth wherever he went
honestly, I had to look online for the meaning of the term
She pushed gently against me and fell on the bed Stretched a leg towards me began unbuttoning at her jeans I helped her take them off Not too gentle, not too rough Grinning, she turned around in bed and said, “I just remembered, you never told me what your muse looks like.” “Huh?” “And please don’t tell me it looks like me. We both know that’s bullshit sweet talk poets use to get girls. Don’t lie to me, boy. What does your muse look like? You can tell me.” I reached for her foot moved it out of the way not too gently, not too rough Reached for the panties She pushed my hand away not too gently, not too rough “Tell me. Is it, by any chance, a little girl locked inside a basement like it was for my ex-boyfriend? Do you whip her when she’s naughty and doesn’t give you inspiration? Do you deny her food and the bathroom?” “What?” “Tell me, poet! Do you? Do you lie on your back when you masturbate and imagine the muse squat above your face and shower you with her piss as blessing?” I took a step back. “What?” “Oh fuck,” she said. “Just tell me already what your muse looks like and how d’you get intimate with her. Tell me!” “I, I don’t know. I don’t work like that.” She stopped touching herself Watched me expecting to add more I gave a shrug. Honestly, the last time I thought of a muse it was some broke, homeless young guy, scrawny as a putrid plank and roaming the streets He had nothing in this world but hunger A hunger that possessed him and made him write like a madman That guy was my muse But I figured she wouldn’t care to hear about that Anyway, we didn’t go out for long after that evening She said we’re not compatible because I’m too vanilla
rainy season damage
It’s been a rough rainy season and rain always put father in the drinking mood He drank more in this rainy season than ever before in his life Mother’s missing teeth and broken shoulder were proof of that Surprisingly the old story about falling down the stairs held up with the doctors Well, just like he messed his wife up the rainy season messed up the roof of the house He downed what was left of a bottle of vodka and got the ladder and a few tools and went out His son held the ladder for him He always cursed plenty when he worked on something. He was cursing his wife as he hammered at the roof and said something about his son not being his and the second best thing about his fall was that the son didn’t even have to shake the ladder, as planned Father just fell on his own thanks to the vodka he drank before climbing up there The first best thing about father’s fall was that he landed on some screwdriver in his pocket and got stabbed in the kidney The pain must’ve been something to follow him all the way to the afterlife as he bled to death and cried silently The kid watched him, watched his watering eyes, and kicked dust in his face and went back inside the house They waited until it was too late and then called the emergency number
one unlucky boxer
He was a boxer Picked up the craft at six and never put it down Unfortunately though being a good boxer doesn’t earn you a good job in today’s society. Best he could do was bouncer at a local bar His IQ wasn’t much help either He beat up quite a number of troublemakers and earned a reputation became a local celebrity The women desired him and got him and life was good until the one invincible opponent stepped into the ring Well, there are many invincible opponents in a man’s life but his was prostate cancer All the women who wanted to take pictures with him and have his autograph on their chests and wanted to take him home meant nothing now One of them was a rich older lady who gifted him a car after he served her a few times in the bedroom He used it to drive at full speed into a pole And as it happens after someone dies, the people had only good words to say about him They thought he didn’t leave much behind but one of the girls he’d been with knew better She rubbed her swollen belly as she thought of him. It’ll be fine as long as her husband wouldn’t suspect anything
Ol’ Bloody Brush… by Bogdan Dragos
Picture taken from Pinterest
the old man stank
but he
stank more
of booze and cheap
tobacco than
filth
his mouth missed
a lot of
teeth
and his eyes
would never
look
in the same
direction at once
but worst of
all were his hands
Now those were
really messed up
He claimed he had
paint tanks
under his nails
and he wasn’t lying
he was mad
but not a liar
He could paint
wherever he was
on any surface
And he did
pressing the stump
of his fingers
against walls and
furniture
triggered immediate
bleeding
and then he
would trace on and
draw something
Usually a penis or
some hairy cunt or
some silhouettes
fucking or
something like that
Then he’d step back
admire his creation
and laugh
and suck at his
bloody fingers
Ol’ Bloody Brush
was a celebrity
around the
block
He never had
to buy a
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“Thick Glass,” “Twist the Blade,” “Pink Paint,” and “Good Boy, Kyu” – 4 new poems featured in TERROR HOUSE MAGAZINE
Four new poems featured in TERROR HOUSE MAGAZINE: TITLES: Thick Glass Twist the Blade Pink Paint Good Boy, Kyu click any of 'em (ಠ‿↼)
in a very open marriage
She parked in his driveway and got out of the car and went to the door and knocked A woman opened up “Oh, hi. You must be my husband’s date.” “Um… what?” “Oh, it’s okay. We’re in a very open marriage, really. It’s fine. Come in.” She tried to remember a time when she felt more embarrassed and out of place. Failed. Gave up. Came in. The woman closed the door behind her Locked it Took out the gun Fired It was worth it The husband was dead in the bathtub. Shot in the head And his wife used his phone to text this other woman and ask her to come over The wife got a very, very light sentence and no one disagreed with her actions She was the hero all local housewives wanted to be like, an inspiration, a celebrity, someone they looked up to
From sand to ashes… by Bogdan Dragos
Picture taken from Pinterest
It started with sand
from the sandbox
and because it felt good
and they weren’t bothered
by it getting into
all kinds of places
they kept at it
and eventually upgraded to
cigarette ashes
They were making love in a bed
full of them
and it didn’t bother neither
Ashes were far superior to sand
“Ashes are far superior
to sand,” she said
“Um-hm.”
“So let’s promise then. Promise that
whoever dies first will have
their ashes snorted by
the one who stays alive.”
“I promise.”
They embraced each other and felt
the ashes in each other’s hair
and kissed
knowing that the day will come very soon
They were both 28
***
Visit the author’s blog at:https://drbogdan.home.blog/
the world is full of fetishists
the sex was good She loved to swallow. Even from the condom. Had a real fetish with it They passed out eventually in each other’s arms and somewhere towards the morning he woke up with a blade in the gut It twisted hard He gasped for air and watched her eyes, demanding an explanation Her response was a shrug. “Just wanted to see what it feels like. I think I love it.” He didn’t survive and she faced no real consequences The world is full of fetishists some girls like to swallow cum and carve their partners up for fun and some men like to hook up with psych ward patients There never was a time in history when madness was not romanticized and idolized and alluring as sin
Daydreaming as a profession 