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.
this morning the pills have not been there kitchen top cabinet not there but of course the world wouldn’t explode if he didn’t take the pills for one day Things were going too fine to slip downhill now He didn’t need the pills. It actually was like the doctor said, the power was inside him The power to change to become better to leave the past behind. The power was in him And in dearest Kyu, his therapy dog, a small corgi who needed to be walked everyday He smiled as he thought of Kyu called him and Kyu came and he put the leash on and went outside The rain didn’t bother either of them Only problem during rainy days was the lack of other people to socialize with People hated rain and that was that but not him and Kyu They walked through the park and the rain grew more intense fatter drops heavier colder louder splashing the little rivulets flowing on the sides of the streets weren’t so little anymore This would turn out to be a total flood better go back home Kyu seemed to get the meaning they turned back and the rivulets at the sides of the street grew more potent and the leash grew lighter and lighter Gods! The rivulet carried Kyu away! Oh God, no! Straight into the curbside storm drain! In the sewer! Kyuuuuuu! And there was no one on the streets not even cars passing He had to do something by himself because no one would help him nobody ever helped him He had to pull himself out of this ditch by himself once more Cursing between clenched teeth he dropped to his knees and crawled into the storm drain after his beloved Kyu He landed on hard concrete and broke his foot so badly that the jagged shinbone protruded through the flesh and skin and came out like a blade He screamed and cried and cursed the day he was born and the people in his life and outside of it Of course everyone would be outside of it Nobody would be in his life not mother not father not sister grandparents friends? What friends? He never had any of those People were cold people wanted to see him cry because seeing him cry was their food and they needed food to stay alive, they needed to eat and their hunger was insatiable they should…just die actually The dirty water showered all around him and onto his wound and onto his head and eyes but he still saw it He saw them carrying Kyu away dragging him by the paws towards the darkest spot of the sewer despite his whimpering protests He screamed, shouted at them but they wouldn’t listen “Hey, you bastards, let him go!” No, they would not let Kyu go Words were not enough to convince people. He had to do something. He crawled after them through the cold filth with pain and determination propelling him Oh, it was them, of course Mother and father and sister they were dragging Kyu away from him just as they dragged everything away from him This was too much He couldn’t let this happen. Too much! He crawled after them crying screaming cursing and reached for his broken shinbone and pulled it out of the leg and stabbed them with it again and again He kept stabbing at their backs their heads, their throats, their chests, their arms everywhere stab stab stab “Thought you could take everything away from me my friends, my life, my love, my soul, my freedom, my purpose, my way, my choices, my health, my possibilities, and now even him, my dearest Kyu? Fuck you! I won’t let you! I won’t let you!” and he kept stabbing and stabbing stab stab stab until that hand just wouldn’t work anymore and he fell with his head on Kyu like on a pillow as he always did and darkness came about him Good night, Kyu
all right, that sounded like good advice Put your room in order first and then your thoughts Sure He started looking around the room for things that were to be thrown and things that were misplaced There were a few There was a broken snowboard on his bed It had the image of a naked girl painted along he slept with it at night and would often find himself placing his lips over hers and licking at her slim, long neck She had to go It was time to get rid of her and break out of this ridiculous lifestyle He grabbed it Looked at the girl for a good minute and decided to place the snowboard under his bed He knelt by the side of the bed and looked under Alas, she had no room in there There was the forgotten cave of dead gods he no longer thought about And it was full There were body pillows with brown stains Hardened socks Doll heads A teddy bear with a hole carved between the legs A drinking glass stuffed with dishwashing sponges wrapped in plastic bags Magazines with crumpled pages Pictures printed on A4 paper Sealed jars that contained small figurines covered by a thick, brown substance like melted wax Those were the gods of nights long past They had their share of his worshiping and had been abandoned to rot away There was simply no more room for the present god to be disposed of “Funny,” he said looking at her from above. “It's like all the ones who came before you had passed down their blessings onto you. I… I am sorry I tried to get rid of you, love. I’m such a fool! Don’t strike me down, please. I’ll… I can only try to make up for it.” He placed the snowboard back on the bed and ripped two pieces from a paper towel and placed them over the middle of the snowboard where the painted girl’s nakedness was exposed He pulled his pants down and mounted her Rubbed his penis against the paper towels and showered the girl’s face with kisses while apologizing and shedding tears for wronging her so much By the time he came he felt forgiven and cleaned the stains that made it past the papers with his mouth
at 08:22 he awakens and pushes away the tarp he uses as blanket he’s already dressed up and wears shoes looks around at the blackening dampness of the walls stretches a bit takes off his coat and the blouse and the shirt and the tank-top grabs a tissue wets it with rubbing alcohol and uses it to wash his armpits. He knows it’s good for killing the bad smelling bacteria He knows much about how the world works for he’d been to school and even one year of collage in his youth When his armpits dry he dresses up and gets out and checks under the big flower pots that stand before the entry to the building He is wise to keep his savings there Otherwise the others would’ve smelled it on him and would’ve robbed him a long time ago He counts the money and feels satisfied with the sum At 09:30 he eats a warm meal at the local soup kitchen and turns down four bums who ask to borrow money At 10:10 he walks up to the big casino and enters Now his imagination kicks in Behind the entry he is greeted with luxury, he walks on the red carpet and sees the bright lights and the game attendants who greet him like a king He is the king in his vision and he had returned to his castle He smiles and walks around leisurely A man needs to have but a clear vision of a bright future to live a happy present He finds a seat in front of a slot machine puts the money into the bill acceptor and starts playing He is one of the happiest customers the casino ever had
there was a dead body in the room Had to be Else where did the smell come from? Every time he’d turn around to catch a ghost or a zombie from the corner of his eyes the smell would slap him A smell of death He decided he’d look around for the dead body but later He didn’t have the energy now or the disposition or anything He only wanted to sleep some more He just woke up and needed a good nap to recover Perhaps there were times when it didn’t make sense but now, today, nothing made more sense that this All you need is a healthy dose of chronic depression and it makes sense Just like not cleaning the room and not taking a shower in a time longer than memory can be bothered to remember So he paced back to the bed and climbed in and dragged the blanket, heavy with caked dirt, on his body and closed his eyes He fell asleep in spite of the smell of death coming closer still The dreams were always a little bit better in the nap taken after waking up from the night’s sleep One time he even dreamed he was a published author. Not a great or even a good one, but published
Father used his fists a lot Though never on the kids On the walls and the furniture and the doors and the mailbox and the fence and the neighbors and random people on the street and strangers in the bar and a few times the poor dog and one time on mother He was the childhood’s villain To defeat him one had to become a hero and becoming a hero took time And today after all this time the villain of childhood was dead He died at the hands of some other character, a neutral one A cop who told him to drop to the ground and father didn’t so he got shot That was it The end of his saga Utterly unsatisfactory anticlimactic disappointing just bad There was no final showdown between hero and villain because those things only happen in childhood and childhood had ended a long time ago
“I fucking hate rice,” she told me. “And I’m beginning to kinda hate you for loving it.” “Shit,” I said, “what did rice ever do to you?” She opened her purse took out the pack of smokes and fished one out with her lips. “Fuck,” she said, looking for the lighter. “I think I still have the pits in my knees…” “What?” She shrugged. “I was a little girl, alright, and whenever I did something that my dear grandma considered naughty she’d pour raw rice in a corner of the room and make me kneel on it and just stand like that for… I don’t know, hours.” “Really?” “Really!” She blew the smoke in my face. “To this day, bitch still wonders how I could steal her savings from the pension. I didn’t even need the money. I just hated her guts is all. And now I hate rice. And you.” “Well,” I said. “I never stole from my grandma. And to this day I don’t hate walnuts.” “What?” “Yeah, that was my version of the punishment. I knelt on shells of walnuts just like you with the rice. And I don’t hate ’em.” She blew more smoke in my face
Wherever you hear about a drinking problem you expect the man to be violent and vulgar and turn abusive and destructive well it wasn’t the case with him There was a drinking problem there for sure but all it cursed him with was sleep and sometimes verses He’d start writing after drinking But he was a kind man and a great lover and his wife had a hard time convincing her family and friends and neighbors that a man who has a separate trashcan only for bottles and beer cans is not a man who strikes his wife, not even with words Well, none of them read his poetry and by the time he died of cirrhosis it was too late You can’t scold a dead man for having written thousands upon thousands of pages of splatter-punk gore and abuse fantasies involving his wife her family her friends neighbors and everyone he knew, including minors
“and I still hadn’t changed my opinion,” she said. “I still believe that a double suicide is the absolute highest display of love there is. Think about it, two lovers dying in each other’s arms. What in hell can be more romantic?” “I don’t know,” he said, “staying alive for each other’s sake, maybe?” “What? That’s, like, not romantic at all. The longer you stay alive, the higher your chances to fall out of love. Nothing chews at love like life does. That’s why death is the answer. It’s the only way to immortalize love. It’s the way towards that plane of existence where all you feel is love and nothing else. I wanna go there!” She squeezed her fists and eyes, braced herself as she said it. “Well,” he said, “We’re both out of a job, unwanted by family, no home, no cash, no future…” “All we really need is love!” she screamed, jumping into his arms “Yeah,” he said, “and an overdose.” “I’m with you, dearest cousin!”
there were times when she bit and chewed the inside of her elbow to spit the bits of flesh and the blood on her grandma but those times were over almost forgotten along with the teachings that her blood is poisoned because she was conceived with the wrong woman, meaning not the one grandmother intended for her father But today all those people were dead. Only father was alive He was all right. A hard working man, busy with life busy enough not to notice that his daughter is constantly sprinkling ashes in his food and coffee He’d almost consumed the contents of his mother’s urn there’s just a bit left
