▶️ BASA: POUR WHISKEY OVER MY HEART AND SET IT ON FIRE | Bogdan Dragos

BUTUNG IS LAYP | Coconut is Life

afternoon coffee with Bogdan
2022 | © tea solon
Mandaue City
Philippines

Taking a short break from doing translation work and now devouring Bogdan‘s 2020 poetry collection PourWhiskey Over My Heart And Set It On Firewhich carries with it the signature images that scandalizes, tears, and undo me every time. I love how Bogdan’s poetry disturbs the psyche and annihilates moral boundaries that sometimes Boccaccio’s The Decameron comes to mind and marries every heinous psychological thriller film there is. Great afternoon read!

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BRILLIANT BLOGGER POET INTERVIEW: PROVOCATIVE DAYDREAMING WITH BOGDAN DRAGOS – PART II

Poetry and Prose of Ken Hume

5. Where did you get the idea for your Daydreaming as a Profession blog site? Was it something you’ve always wanted to do? And how long has it been in existence?
Daydreaming is and was always my favorite activity. And the one I’m really good at (because it happens effortlessly). I’ve been doing it all my life, but never thought I could create something tangible from it.
Now pretty much every poem is the result of daydreaming.
Growing up, I’ve often been told that I daydream too much. The Romanian expressions for daydreaming sound something along the lines of, “to dream with one’s eyes open,” and my personal favorite, “to dream of green horses on the walls”.
Goodness, I can’t recall how many times I’ve heard that in my life. If someone could show me snapshots of my life, 85% of them would probably be of me holding a fixed…

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BRILLIANT BLOGGER POET INTERVIEW: PROVOCATIVE DAYDREAMING WITH BOGDAN DRAGOS – PART 1

Poetry and Prose of Ken Hume

Welcome folks to the latest edition of my Brilliant Blogger Poet initiative which this week features what promises to be an intriguing and insightful interview with the daring & provocative Mr. Bogdan Dragos. He works in a casino by night dreaming of being a writer of renown, where I imagine he meets all sorts of interesting & strange people. Thank you Bogdan for agreeing to participate in this initiative.

1. First of all I’d like to ask you have you always been drawn to expressing yourself through the written word and telling stories?

Oh, absolutely not!
I hated reading and writing as a child and as a teenager. I hated school and everything that resembled or reminded me of it. One time I got into a fight with a friend at the end of summer vacation because he wouldn’t stop talking about how eager he was for school to begin…

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whatever you seek you will not find by Bogdan Dragos

ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ...  Visit Gobblers/Masticadores and find more writings you can enjoy! Thanks! 

Gobblers & Masticadores

the more you struggle to attain happiness the heavier depression becomes but somewhere along the way you have to realize why you want to be happy What's the reason? If it's just because happiness feels good and the other thing doesn't then it's not enough the very search for happiness occurs because the mind thinks it's smarter than the heart. It thinks that it knows better what happiness is what a fool pathetic the mind doesn't know shit it's just a bully who coerces every other part of the being to agree with its twisted ideas And the heart, not being able to fight back because fighting involves hating an opponent, just surrenders, lets the mind have its way Do not seek to get rid of depression seek to be okay with having it Side with the heart, not with the mind The heart loves and accepts and you can't…

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Unele lucruri nu mai pot fi puse la loc

(´,,•ω•,,)♡ ENGLISH TRANSLATION:


some things can never be put back together

Some things can never
be put back together
after they’ve been
taken apart

No matter how much
willpower is involved

One of those things,
she now knew for sure,
was a marriage

Like the one
she was presently fleeing,
flying down the highway
like a fiend or a bat out of hell

Another such thing
could be her right hand
resting severed on the seat
there beside her

Though she wasn’t so
sure about the hand
Maybe if she made it
to the hospital in time?

Maybe

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

de Bogdan Dragoș

unele lucruri nu mai pot
fi puse la loc, nu mai
pot fi 
reparate după ce au fost stricate

indiferent de câtă 
voință este implicată
în încercare.

Unul dintre aceste lucruri,
își dădu ea seama acum,
ar fi o căsnicie

precum cea de care fugea
acum,
zburând pe autostradă 
ca un liliac scăpat din iad

Și un alt asemenea lucru 
ar fi mâna ei dreaptă 
care zăcea retezată pe scaunul
din dreapta.

Desi nu era chiar așa de sigură
în privința mâinii.
Poate dac-o s-ajungă la timp
la spital...

Poate... 

Imagine de Rudy and Peter Skitterians de la Pixabay 

https://bogdandragos.com/

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Fakespeare by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A black and white historical drawing of a king being pointed at by his queen and an old woman
Image Source: Canva

he sat on his knees

before the

bed

by the window

and tapped swiftly

on the screen

of the cheap tablet he’d

bought second hand

It had only a few apps

and the one

he used was

the notes app

It’s hell having to tap

on a screen

to write

but the alternative was

scratching words with

a pen on

paper

and those couldn’t be sent

anywhere these days

He had to get with

the times

At night he kept dreaming

of a device that

would turn one’s thoughts

into written words.

The future will

bring that for sure, but

for now he couldn’t even

afford

a small laptop

It’s hell having the

words in

you, ready to blaze out,

and not being able to

offer them the means

Oh, he

was frustrated, alright

And behind him a

woman’s voice

kept asking ‘when’

“When what?”

he snapped…

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A Cold Hell by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 
⊂( ◉‿◉ )つ 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A close up of a mother and child, dirty and poor, crying and hugging each other
Image Source: Canva

the clouds seemed

to be holding

the sun back

like a slave

with chains of lead

After a night

of heavy snow

the day tried to make

a comeback

and failed

It was 11:00 AM

and dark as evening

and since it was

also cold as hell

they concluded they

were in hell

“But hell is not

forever, mother,” he

said. “I’ll make it outside

of hell. In a place where

every soul has a home

and no one freezes in the

streets like us.”

It was a childish promise

that came from

a child

Unlike his mother and her

purple lips

and faded eyes that looked

towards his face

but not at it,

he was blazing with life

and with rage

He shook his tiny fist

at life’s own

cruelty

and cursed the coldness

of the gods

It was still pathetic

in comparison

with the coldness

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Împrietenește-te cu singurătatea

( ^◡^)っ ♡ English version HERE!

MasticadoresRumanía Editora: Manuela Timofte

de Bogdan Dragoș

nu-mi amintesc care a fost cel mai
bun sfat
pe care l-am primit de la tatăl meu,
dar cel mai bun sfat pe care
l-am primit de la un
om care nu era tatăl meu
zice așa: 
Împrietenește-te cu singurătatea.

Dacă tu și singurătatea sunteți
dușmani
atunci o să te simți singur

Dar atunci când tu și singurătatea
sunteți prieteni,
o să fii solitar 

Diferența dintre singurătate și 
solitudine
este diferența dintre
un copil naiv care crede că fericirea
lui depinde de alții 
și bătrânul înțelept care înțelege că 
fericirea depinde numai
și numai
de sine

Imagine de carmen camacho de la Pixabay

https://bogdandragos.com/

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my favorite writer

"He started writing," she
said, talking
about her
father.
"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
know.
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
or 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
writing

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

It’s All a Game by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks! 
ヽ(♡‿♡)ノ 

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

A doll lying submerged in green moldy stale water with a frog sitting near its head
Image Source: Canva

but what are we alive for

if not to play

and enjoy

games

life itself is

but a game

and the best at it are

those who don’t

grow up, those who can

still view it

as such

She tried to teach her

four children

this truth

that’s why she brought them

into the backyard

where all the small trash bags,

so well wrapped in tape,

were laid on the grass,

and told them,

“It’s like that Easter game

where you find

the eggs. Only this time it’s

with small trash bags,

and you’ll be hiding

them.” She clapped

her hands a few times. “So let’s

go then. Mommy will

play along this time.

Let’s hide

the bags.”

It was the police

who came to

search for them later

“Can we build a dad

with all

these parts?” asked

one of the kids

after the policemen

won…

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