a songless bird
that would be the nicest
name she’d been
called
the others,
far more common,
being
that little wench
your bastard kid
the little rat
useless piece of shit that came outta you
and others
She liked the term
songless bird
It was a title worthy of her in
all the good and the
bad ways
The songless bird stands
locked in her room
and knocks and waves in
the window
for she has no voice to sing
She gives silent cries to the
neighbors and
the passersby when the noises
from the other side of
her door
get too violent
or when it smells
of smoke
Which happens
every now
and then
She got very deep into spirituality at her mother’s sound advice
A lot of people, including her mother, got into spirituality as a means to calm the feeling of having no control over life whatsoever
But behold, there are those who go through spirituality and come out knowing that it none of it’s true Suddenly they know and understand we have one hundred percent control over our own destinies
Today she was one of those people
“It’s all a matter of how we manage our thoughts,” she said “How we organize our minds. You attract what you focus on most of the time. It’s that simple.”
The guys at the bar all nodded, each hoping to get some private lessons out of her
And one of them did
He took her to his place where he found out that she was on her period
Sunt un trotuar
unul pe care ale tale picioare
s-au târât grele și
umede și obosite
și mă-ntreb încotro te
duci
și de unde vii
Mă uit într-una în sus
sătul de tălpi și picioare
chiloți și monede pierdute
și gunoaie aruncate
și indiferență
Prea mulți oameni, prea puțini câini
și doar câteva pisici și șobolani
în noapte
Dar tu ești diferită. Tu nu porți
pantofi și piciorușele tale
sunt reci și delicate
și-n urma ta
mă pictezi cu o dâră de sânge
N-ai chef de complimente, știu. Dar
am s-o spun oricum. Ești frumoasă
Și sper... sper că
oricine te urmărește
n-o să te
prindă niciodată
Îmi doresc să pot face
ceva, să pot ajuta
dar eu sunt un trotuar
sub tine
și pot doar privi
Goddammit, they were looking at a doctor He came into the casino in a suit, the same suit every day and night dark gray shiny with grease around the elbows and lower back smelly patched up in places
he kinda forgot what it was like to be sober
and lately he kinda forgot what it was like to win at the slot machines
he forgot how to perform surgery how to diagnose a patient
forgot what the company of a woman felt like
forgot what love was
he was a machine that consumed cheap but strong alcohol Rubbing alcohol filtered through bread That stuff was 70% alcohol his liver knew it
"Ah, pleaseeee, for the love of God, don't make me work with this stuff again," he would scream while playing at the slot machine
and the bouncer would walk up to him and say, "Hey…
he would start whistling Very random and very loud even at night in bed and stopping him was very much a gamble The caterpillar-like stitches on his wife’s arm were a testimony to that He’s never been the same since his head injury Poor fellow just had the terrible, terrible luck to walk underneath an overpass while some teenagers were throwing big rocks for fun Now he kept calling the emergency number and crying that his wife had gone missing when she’d be just in the other room or at work The neighbors filed noise complaints because of his nightly whistling and apparently he no longer knew how to use the toilet paper. He always smelled and it was worse when he climbed in bed besides his wife It was hell and hell broke people and tonight again he started whistling and woke her up and as…
Issue 1 of “Suburban Witchcraft Magazine” is now live!
((๑´ᗜ`) isn't the cover absolutely stunning? Wait till you see the rest of the artwork inside!)
And I have the honor to be featured in it with a poem titled "she speaks the language of blood".
Give it a read HERE!
( ✪ワ✪)ノ Thank you very much!
Poem written in my original language (Romanian).
TRANSLATION:
"Um... it doesn't rhyme,"
she said
I looked at her.
"You kidding?"
And then she shook her head.
"No, look, this poem
really has no rhymes
at all
You sure it's the right file?"
"Let me see."
She handed me her phone
and I looked at the text
on the screen, smirked, turned off
the phone and kissed her
"You are truly the cutest," I said. "But,
you see, not all poems
must have rhymes."
"Sure they do. Then why d' you write
them? And why should the
world bother to read them?"
"Good question. Maybe I'll find
out one day..."
– Uite, nu rimează, zise ea.
Am privit-o adânc.
– Tu... vorbești serios?
Dădu din cap.
– Uite, poezia asta chiar n-are nici o
rimă. Nimic.
Ești sigur că-i documentul care
trebuie?
– Dă-mi să văd.
Îmi dădu telefonul
și am citit textul de pe ecran,
am zâmbit, am închis telefonul
și am sărutat-o.
– Ești... cea mai drăguță, i-am zis.
Dar vezi tu, nu toate poeziile
trebuie să aibă și rimă.
– Cum să nu? Atunci de ce
le mai scrii? Și de ce le-ar mai citi
lumea?
– Bună întrebare. Poate într-o zi o
să aflu...
Daydreaming as a profession 