Savages by Bogdan Dragos

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MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A sad, small boy has covered his face with his hands
Image Source: Snappa

Wasn’t the best house for

a five-year-old

It was just a small room above the

bar his mother worked in

and it was open until late at night

and he couldn’t sleep because

of the noise

He imagined savages going

at each other, fighting to the death,

and then laughing in celebration

of victory

and he wasn’t too far from the truth

His mother would come

into the room from time to time

to get something or

to leave something in her locker

She had no time for him

And lately she kept coming with

blood on her clothes

He imagined she must clean up after

all those savages, pick

their dead bodies up

and bury them

It was unfair. Her only reward was

a spit’s worth of flour

that she was too tired to cook

with. So

she just snorted it through her nose

and went…

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sidewalk by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

I am a sidewalk

one upon whom your
feet dragged heavy and
wet and tired

and I wonder where you
are going
and where you're coming
from

I look up constantly and
am tired of soles and legs and
panties and dropped coins
and litter

and indifference

Too many people, too few dogs
and cats and some rats at night

But you are
different. You wear no shoes and
your little feet are cold and
so delicate
and in your wake you are painting
me with a trail of blood

you are not in the mood to
receive compliments, I know. But
I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful

I hope he never catches you

I wish there was
something I could do
about it 

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Kissed So Hard by Bogdan Dragos

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MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A close up of a pair of red lips and parted teeth holding metal pieces
Image Source: Snappa

“Have you ever kissed a lover

so hard

you chipped a tooth?”

she asked

with a grin that

revealed more than one

chipped tooth

He shook his head. “No, and I

really don’t intend

to.”

Well, that’s what you get

for hitting

on a girl you meet

in the yard of the local asylum. But

she said she was a

nurse.

“Anyway,” he said. “If this is what happened

to you… What happened

to him? I mean,

after the kiss.”

“Oh, there were many,

many kisses actually,” she said. “He’s

dead now.”

“What? He died?”

“Well, yeah, dogs don’t

live that much. Compared to humans

I mean.”

-BOGDAN DRAGOS

Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a…

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to melt the shackle

it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause 

He looked around
and saw 
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
staring at him

“Congratulations, they said. You
have awakened.” 

“What in the hell?” he 
said, looking around 
startled. “Who are you?” 

“The messengers,” replied 
the shadows. “We are very pleased
to announce that you 
may collect your prize 
whenever you are ready. You’ve 
earned it.” 

“What? What did 
I do?” 

“You awakened. In a world of 
sleepers
you woke up
and are therefore eligible for
ascension. You might follow
us through the hole 
in the ceiling whenever you
are ready. All that’s left
to do here is
to melt the shackle.” 

“What?” he said

Then one of the shadows
have him a small 
bottle that smelled strongly
of gasoline 
and a box of matches 

The other shadows
pointed to 
his desk, to all the papers
stacked on it
and under it 
and all around it

“Those are my poems,” he said

“Indeed. They represent 
everything that keeps you 
tied to this world. Your shackle.
Burn your shackle and melt it
away so you can ascend
and take flight. The time 
has come.” 

“I worked all my life
to write those 
poems,” he said

“Yes, you did. But now that you
are awake you see that
they’re all in vain. For 
nothing is real
on this plane. It’s all 
a dream, of course. You have 
designed it pretty nice. A simple
dream spent entirely in
the confines of a narrow room
with low ceiling. Drinking
and smoking and 
writing all day long 
and late into the night. It’s 
a beautiful dream. No family,
no friends, no communication with the 
outside world, and no desire
for any. You’ve thus taken 
a shortcut to awakening, but it’s by
no means illegal. You’re still
eligible for ascension. So,
whenever you’re ready, we are.” 

He watched the shadows

The shadows watched him

He reached out for the 
gasoline and matches, looked over
to the desk and the stacks
of paper

Looked for a long
time

Closed his eyes
and went back to sleep 

The shadows were gone
by the morning
but they left the gasoline and
matches 
behind

He got out of bed
went to the desk 
by the window
opened the blinds
and started writing
another poem

poets and happy endings by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

"When you no longer
see the shadow of what
kept you strong
it's time to let go."

Those would be the last words
he wrote
at the back of the notebook
he filled with thoughts
and rants
and poems

‘Thoughts That Come From
The Heart’
was the title

and the work will remain
for long after he'd
pass away

At least that was the plan

But alas,
as he gave his final breath the
cigarette rolled from his fingers
to the desk and all the way
down on the shaggy carpet

It was a matter of minutes
until the
whole room became
a snapshot from the inferno

It's almost like the gods
want to send
a message. They want to
say that poets
rarely
if ever
have happy endings

I'm starting to
believe that
more and
more as
the days pass

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I am birds

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.”

join in the silence by Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

There was indeed silence now Oh, and it's been but days since the screams cracked the windows and the thrown bottles stripped the walls of their paint and the curses made the gods cringe and cover their ears The house of madness no longer lived up to its name For she was finally gone and he was left with the echoes "C'mon, dare me to down it!" were her words as she opened the last bottle And his were, "Bitch, you're mad!" "Dare me, motherfucker! Dare me to down this here bottle. You don't think I can, do you? Ah, you slime-gutted piece of shit." "I'm telling you to knock it the fuck out already! I'll bury yer fuckin' eyes in, see if I won't." But she was already pouring down her throat. She had this talent that allowed her to drink without swallowing. Pouring down her throat was like…

View original post 124 more words

town of forgotten poets

there he was 
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase 

both stuffed with
papers

“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
said the shadows that
watched from the 
windows
of nearby buildings

He didn’t like the 
sound of their
voices

but he sighed 
and dragged his
tired feet along 

they were almost as
tired as his soul
and just as hurt

He'll have to live on the
streets,
for the town
was overpopulated

Why Do You Seek the Living Among the Dead by Bogdan Dragos?

( ^◡^)っ Follow MasticadoresIndia and find more poems and stories you'll love! 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

An old woman has lowered her head and has covered her eyes with her palms
Image Source: Snappa

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.

The effects…”

“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

didn’t flinch.

Told them that’s not her son.

That was a dead body and her son was alive.

He’d…

View original post 77 more words

good and bad poetry by Bogdan Dragos

Gobblers / Masticadores // Editores: Manuela Timofte / j re crivello

Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
can relate
and poetry to which
people can't relate.
And that makes all the difference
in the world.

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