a successful first date

she slid out of that short
skirt and
removed the panties as well
and hopped on the bed
and took off her shirt
and bra

then assumed the lotus
position and
very calmly said, "You got like…
a needle and some rubbing alcohol?"

"Um, what for?" he asked

She looked him
in the eyes. "I want you to
watch me pierce my
nipples. I've some cute rings
I want to see shining in 'em.
So, you down for it?"

He was silent for a long
time. Just staring
at her tits. "Um… I'm out of rubbing
alcohol. Will some
vodka do?"

"It won't be nearly as
good," she said, "but hell,
let's give it a shot."

His mind was already ablaze with
images of her
being his wife 

dating preferences

the phone rang at 03:08

unknown number

Well, the bleeding wound
on his forehead prevented him
from sleeping anyway

He picked up

"Hey," a girl's voice said. "Are
you the guy who
has a thing for crazy girls fresh out
of the psych ward?"


"Am I speaking to the guy who's
very much into dating
sexy girls with mental issues that
other guys refer to as red flags?"

"Who is this?" he asked

"Oh no, this is not
about me. I just wanted to
introduce you to my sister. I think she
fits the bill quite perfectly
with you. What do you say?"

He sighed. "Tell her I'll call back
once my current girlfriend
breaks up with me. I hope she's patient. It'll
take a good couple of hours. Bye."

He hung up 


the music
makes my lungs quake 

there are people 
all around 
jumping up and down 
howling into each other's 

the lights blaze from above
and the sides 
and even from the floor 

the immense room feels 
like the surface 
of a star 

and its inhabitants dance 
and cheer 
in the flames 

Everyone is happy 
everyone's ecstatic 

having the time of their

And I am amidst 
them all 

They are talking to me
Expecting replies 

The party goes 
on and on
and on 

God... I've never felt lonelier
in my life.

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


my favorite writer

"He started writing," she
said, talking
about her
"He's an old man now. Had
me when
he was in his
late forties. You'd think
late forties would
be enough to realize
that a man is crazy, but
well, not my mother
I guess. Or perhaps it was
the craziness that
attracted her to him. I'll never
He says that writing is
something you can
do until you drop
dead, unlike
sports where you can only be
truly good when you're
young, in your prime.
Also, he's
one of those artists who
believe that
one must suffer for art. I tried
telling him that's just
plain stupid,
but despite all my efforts he
still sprinkles
razor blades on his bed
when he goes to sleep. He moves
at night
of course
and of course he gets plenty
of cuts. All over his body.
And every time he gets a cut
he stands up,
turns on the light,
and sprays rubbing alcohol on
the cut.
He says it works 100% of
the time.
Instantly he gets inspired,
grabs the muse by
the throat, as he puts it.
There's a laptop on his nightstand,
ever turned on,
and he immediately starts
writing as the
blood seeps out of
the wound. When the inspiration
wains he grabs the bottle
of rubbing alcohol and
sprays some more. There's no
writing without pain, he says. And
of course
all his stories are
about pain and suffering.
He's even got one in which
this old guy
who never did anything worthwhile
in his life
finds himself paralyzed in
his armchair
from the waist down.
How he can't do shit
and just cries
and begs death to take him
already. But he doesn't really
want to go. He knows that all
his life has been lived in vain.
He never made one
soul happy as long
as he lived.
So he gets this idea that if only he can
make one soul happy
before departing forever
he had not lived in vain.
In part two of
the story he
starts cutting pieces of his own
flesh, from the legs
in which he's got no
feeling, and throws them
out the window for
the mongrel dogs and
street cats to feast on. Then he
dies in peace,
knowing that he'd made at least
a few souls happy."

"Did he really write that,"
I asked

"Sure did," she said. "And many
more. He doesn't care
about publishing
though. He just knows that
the world will discover his
art after he'll be gone. I guess
he made his
peace with this."

"Shit," I said, "listen, could I
read that story myself?
Or any other
of his?"

"Like I said, he won't
share his
writings with an audience. Only
postmortem, he says."

Well, after that evening
every time I met her
I kept asking
about her father.

He was still
alive and

He also got diabetes
from all the
glasses of coca-cola
mixed with
six or seven spoonfuls
of sugar he drank
to replenish his blood,
but that was
all right, apparently it only
made him write better
now that he had more
suffering in his life

he also refuses to see
or be seen
by any doctors
or psychiatrists

Well, I don't want much
from him, only
to know that
he's got a big fan
in this world

like making a contract with a dumpster diving company

first came
the 15 page letters

They were
typed in parts and
written by hand in others

the ink color
would change
and the font
and the little doodles on
the margins
The only consistency in
the whole project
was the reader’s
inability to understand 93%
of it all

They were threats, alright,
but of what nature?

Well, next came the envelopes
filled with rusty and bloody
razor blades
pubic hairs
bloody tissues
bloody plastic gloves
broken guitar strings
clipped nails
pictures of random people
with their eyes crossed out
by needle scratches

“It’s not so bad
if you think
about it,” he said. “I get free
stuff in the mail. Sure, most
of it is junk,
but every once in a while I get
something good.
Look, the other day I got this
perfectly functioning pen. Heh,
I might even
start writing poetry again…
I’m tellin’ you, man, breaking
the heart of a psychotic girl
is like
making a contract with
a dumpster diving company to deliver
the junk to your mail. For free.
Goddamn, I should really
start writing poetry again. Now that
I don’t have to go
scout the dumpsters myself. I gotta
do something with
all the free time.” 

making it big in a small world

other than
the fuck out
she didn’t know how
to feel about it

so she read the
words again


The words were written
with a black marker
on a $100 bill
that someone threw at
her in the
while she was
stripping on the pole

Could’ve been a shitty
but $100 was a bit
too much to spend
for laughs

She tried to
remember the
faces of all the men
who gathered around
her and howled
as she did her number
but they were
simply too many
and too bland

Later that night
she asked the
management to remove
private lap dances
from her list of
services for a while
the request was denied

Well, when you make
it big
in a small world
you either carry the
weight of fame
on your shoulders or
get crushed

At least the
money bought a good
dinner for
her little daughter
and the two cats

no country for romantic men by Bogdan Dragos

( ☞◔ ౪◔)☞  Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy!

Gobblers & Masticadores

and the few survivors who couldn’t fight were lined up along with the civilians and shot or killed in ways to entertain the soldiers And dogs were trained to tear them to shreds and the ground became black with their soaked blood and over the next few days a carpet of butterflies gathered on top of it “It’s beautiful,” he said She didn’t pay attention. Was too busy removing golden teeth from a severed head she held in her lap. “Dammit, whoever made these implants did too good a job. I’ve to take ‘em with gums, alright. Look, my knife keeps slipping.” “Stab his eyes please,” he said “What? Why?” “Because he’s looking at us. I can’t stand it.” “Jeez, you’re such a pussy.” She quickly stabbed the blade into the head’s eyes one after the other. “Better?” “Whatever,” he said. “Just hurry up and pull those teeth.” “I’m trying…

View original post 553 more words


these days a lot of
people call

They claim to be able
to feel what
other people
are feeling
and suffer with them

"I cheated on my boyfriend
with his brother," some
girl said,
“and being the empath
that I am
I started crying along
with him when he
found out. It's hard
being such
an empath."

And there was
the guy
who got into a bar
brawl and
knocked another guy's
teeth out
and held a hand to his
own mouth and made
pain noises

I guess he
was an empath too

If you have a
social media account
and don't describe yourself
as an empath
people will think you're some
kind of monster,
a psychopath, they'll compare
you with Hitler

Yeah, it's a good
reason not
to use social media

If you actually
needed another

a sad burglar

father wasn’t very happy
when he came home
in the night

his little girl,
playing video games
and enjoying snacks
and having an occasional sip from
mother’s wine and cider on
the couch in the living room
at 01:27 AM,
could tell

Father was very sad
even though he came home
money and a car full of stuff

He shied away from
mother’s kiss and hug

“What the fuck’s with you?”
mother asked,
seeing him like that. “You got
caught or somethin’?”

Father looked down
at his shoes. “I’d rather get caught...”

“What?” said mother

“I said… Ah, forget it. I can’t
do this shit anymore. This
is no way
to live life!” He reached into all
the pockets of his pants
and coat and fished out money,
very crumpled bills, and threw them
to the floor. “Look at this.
Look at it and think. In six days
it’s Christmas! And the children from the
foster home I’ve burglarized
are all going to find out they’ve been
on Santa’s naughty list.
Holy shit, I feel like… shit right now…”

“Huh? Is that it? Guilt?
Really? You feel
guilty now? What’s this, a sign
of getting old?”

“If not
then it should be,” he said. “The
two of us grew up in
a foster home just like that
one, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” she said, “and we hated
every second of it. So what? We
didn’t get presents
for Christmas. We were
lucky if we got more food and
an extra hour of TV, dammit. Kids today
are too privileged. Fuck ‘em
an’ let’s count this cash.” She
went on her knees
and started collecting
the crumpled bills.

He stepped
away from her. “I need
a break from this.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “What you
need, darling, is to first
of all stop being
a pussy, you’re embarrassing yourself
in front of your daughter, and
second you need a
strong drink and a good fuck. I can
take care of the last two, but
the first one is
up to you alone, okay? Oh, by the way,
did you also steal a new
tablet? I broke another one

“And a phone charger
for me,” said
their daughter from the couch.
“I didn’t break it. Just can’t
find it anywhere.”

He sighed
and took off his shoes
and went into the bathroom to
take a shower,
unable to get those poor children
off his mind. He hated

“Shit,” he said.

From the living room
his wife and
daughter started blasting really
loud music with
over the top, obnoxious
and dirty lyrics

“This is my life now,” he
whispered against
the water that flowed down from
the top of his head. I was better off
in the foster home. Sometimes it’s
better to be hurt by
others and struggle to stay alive
than to
know the only way you can
stay alive is by hurting others.
It’s times
like these that make me
think about
what that nun said to me
in the foster home when I learned
to write. You’ve a knack for it,
she said. I see a great
future for you as
a writer. Believe in yourself
and keep at it.
Shit… if I kept at it… I’d probably
write a story about a
sad burglar now
instead of living it…

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