the old boy wakes up three hours ahead of the world that lives in concrete buildings and one hour ahead of the competition and emerges from his damp tent looks around the park looks at the sky Overcast He stretches a bit and scratches his head and walks over to the fountain and has a drink collects some mint leaves chews on them spits and rinses his mouth The work clothes are already on him Boots two pairs of socks cotton and wool faded jeans a shirt a sweater and coat over them mittens and a cap that covers his ears as well It's now time to set about collecting tin cans around the neighborhood to make just enough for a meal and a half and maybe a few cigarettes sold individually It's been enough years for all this to become routine When you don't know of any better you don't expect any better And now he only did this to have just enough energy and life force to visit the public library and read heart warming poems
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you ever just sit or lay on your bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder if you’ve ever eaten meat from an animal that was the offspring of another animal you’ve eaten? I’ve once read an article about the food industry’s secret glue that can paste together the meat belonging from many animals and makes it look like it’s from a single one thus you could eat beef thinking that it’s from a cow when in fact it’s from nine different cows of nine different ages and breeds a friend of mine declared herself vegan after she sliced a steak and found gray slimy puss oozing from it. The blade struck a cyst “I’m a vegan forever from now on!” she screamed And I said, “I’m a writer.” “What?” she said. “What’s that have to do with what I said?” “I’m a writer,” I repeated. “Meaning I have to…
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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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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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The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it’ll be okay
“He’s a true fighter,” she said. “I know he’ll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He’ll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him.”
“Mam,” said the doctor. “We found rusty fragments
of broken needles stuck in his arm. Now, since
you’re his only relative
I do believe we shall carry out a discussion involving septic shock.
“He’ll make it! I know he will!
He’s a true fighter and a champion.
I believe in him.”
He didn’t make it
but it was fine apparently. When they showed his
body in the morgue, the old lady
Told them that’s not her son.
That was a dead body and her son was alive.
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my neighbor from upstairs claims that God sticks post-it notes on his fridge overnight I did ask him what they said but he only told me that I'll have to follow him to church if I want to find out I'm generally not a very curious guy so I declined and, what do you know, few days later I see lots of other people following my neighbor to church They all looked the other way when I passed by them and said hi Thing is I don't even doubt God spoke to my neighbor through post-it notes and gave a lot of people hope I just like being the outsider more than I like being hopeful
His name was always linked to the term elusive and he was universally acknowledged as a brilliant writer and an enchanted poet. And the day came when his little apartment reeked of rotting flesh and the authorities had to break his door down.
There was no family to inform but the whole country was now his family and there would be no problem regarding the burial. Oh, he would go with a ceremony that was bound to become national event. But luckily for the authorities the media didn’t smell the rotting yet. The four cleaners who sealed the apartment and entered to perform the expertise called themselves big and biggest fans of the great, late writer.
“Can you believe this?” one of them said. “We’re alone here with, dare I say it, unpublished manuscripts of The Great One. Oooh, I’m tingling just thinking about it.”
“God, look at this room…
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Written by Bogdan Dragos A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all around him and wood above But this was so far from hell Hell was a thing of the past now Now he had her by his […]A Man Doesn’t Need Much To Cling To Life
The soul must know something that the mind can’t comprehend That’s what they said when they watched him from afar He slept under the bridge at night During the day the poor fool sat by the river banks and threw stones into the water All day long With obsession And when he’d see no other stones he’d start crying Few things are more disturbing to the ear than the cries of an adult He had a family some years ago, they said Had a wife and kids And a job in the mine yonder Then a boulder fell on his head one day and along with his mind it took everything away from him