So, what do YOU see when facing the dark corner?
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GOODREADS
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FACING THE DARK CORNER – New collection of dark poetry
REALITY CHECK – New Collection of Dark Poetry
How can you tell what's real in reality?
I don't know. But I can struggle to find out.
Poetry seems like a good place to start.
CHECK IT OUT ON:
AMAZON
GOODREADS
one more coffee
A customer spat into
her face
today
said the coffee she prepared
was too hot
and she refused to
get the authorities
involved
told the manager
she forgave the guy
She was like that
Every time someone wronged
her with something
she’d be as quick to forgive as a
child
It was nice working
with her
Though she was also
one of those people who were
a bit too good for
their own good
Hence she never got a raise
in over five years
they just knew she wouldn’t
mind. She’d just
forgive and move on
It was exactly
so
At the end of the shift
she went back to her
one room apartment
and stared
at the
blank wall
and smiled
Life was still so much
better now
than back then
when
the CPS found her
locked in the dog cage
and took her
away from a mother and
father that didn’t even care
that much
“Forgiveness,” she says, “is what
turns the human into
a god. If you can
do that
then you can do anything.”
I think she’s right
that’s why I always
leave a big tip
at the coffee shop
One day I’ll muster up
the courage
to ask her
to be my muse
I just know she’ll answer
with, “Darling, I already am.”
But until then
I’ll just have
one more coffee
Thank you
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "one more coffee"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
pleonasm
he wouldn’t let go
of that book
nobody knew what it
was
because nobody could
pry it off his hands to
have a look
Eh, whatever
it was just a book
Other crazed men
held on to
dangerous objects like
knives and screwdrivers
and shards of glass wrapped
in a cloth and a padlock
in a sock ever ready to become
a flail when swung right
But he just
held on to that book with gray
hard covers
and like some evangelist
went through the apartment
buildings from
door to door
knocking
and asking the residents if
they’ve seen her
‘Who the hell was he talking
about?’ they’d
ask
and this question made him
leave
and go to the next door
One time
some kid opened up
and probably thought he
was talking about his mother, for
he answered, “She’s at work.”
And without another word
the crazy fool
just barged in, passing by
the kid
and went straight into
the living room where
he seated himself on the
sofa and opened the
book
ready to talk to the
kid about her
Only,
the kid ran out and
asked for help
Cops were called and they took
him to the station
someone there
figured that
the guy simply couldn’t
tell reality apart from
fiction
“He’s talking about
a character in that
book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks
she’s a real person.”
“Yet another nut case. And what the
hell’s the
story about? What’s it titled? Who
wrote it?”
Not without great effort
and a sound beating, they
managed
to take the book away
and have a look at it
It wasn’t even a book. Only the
cover was. He ripped it
and glued it to
a thick notebook that
was fully written by hand
“What the hell you call
this?” said one
of the cops.
“A manuscript,” said another.
“A what?”
“Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you
know what a writer is.
Now, d’ you know what
a pleonasm is?”
“Not the time for playin’ smartass,
smartass. Just say what
you mean already.”
“A prime example of pleonasm
is labeling a writer
as crazy.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon, just get on with the
procedures. We gotta get
this guy into a mental
institution.
He’s a writer, in case you still
don’t get it.”
“Oh…”
They were 50% right
Should’ve added
the word ‘unpublished’ before
the word ‘writer’ and
then the statement would’ve been
complete and
100% true
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "pleonasm"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
it is time to give up
Yeah,
it’s one of those
evenings
when reality
just doesn’t want to
cooperate
When you’ve given it
your all
and feel like there’s
nothing left but
to mourn
the pages lay
scattered about
like autumn leaves, only
with less value
At least the leaves
serve a purpose, don’t they?
while the pages you’ve
written…
The beer also tastes
like vomited sulfur
You even forgot to
drag from the cigarette
you’ve just lit
and the ashes fall on your chest
and gift you with a small
burn mark
You curse a
little
Not knowing whom you’re
cursing
But then it hits you
You suddenly remember
that reality
is nothing more than
your own reflection on the
surface of life’s water
You give a little
laugh
followed by a sigh
Yeah,
there’s nothing left do
be done
It is time to
give up
Only,
not in a defeatist manner
Give up
the struggle to control
take a break
and let life
straighten itself out
You don’t have to
actually believe
Just to it
and be amazed at the
results
You’ll see
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "it is time to give up"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
“The Lives and Dreams of Some of Us” – featured in SPILLWORDS
New poem featured in the illustrious SPILLWORDS PRESS!
TITLE: The Lives and Dreams of Some of Us
( ⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃ Give it a read HERE
Thanks!
he is… you know
just a thin, colorless
light
filtered through
the clouds
the sun
just didn’t bother
anymore
late autumn
It seemed
nobody bothered
too much
there were almost
fifty people there
all gathered for the
funeral
He lit a cigarette, not giving
a damn what others
might say or think, and
dragged a long, lazy puff
and said, “Still better than a
wedding,” to no one
in particular
A few did hear him
but most didn’t
Weird thing to say
at the funeral of one’s own
child, but coming from
him, it wasn’t
that unheard of
“Just let him
be,” said a few voices. “After all,
he is… you know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re
goddamn right.
I’m a writer.”
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "he is… you know"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
the boys will understand
one more scroll with
the thumb on the
screen
reveals an ad
with a message that
reads
YOUR DREAM COMING TRUE
He immediately
skips it
but the mind
dwells on it
a bit longer
Dream come true?
People should stop
associating
the achievement of dreams
with happiness
It’s rarely, if ever, the same
thing
He repeats this to
himself and feels like
some philosopher or something
as he lies in bed
and takes his eyes
from the phone screen
to look across the room
at the desk where
his girlfriend plays some stupid
video game on the PC
She’s got headphones on
and the mic activated
She’s got it
all
Spiky
green hair, gothic makeup,
piercings in ears, nose, lips,
tongue, brow, navel, nipples,
socks with cat paws at the feet, a
six-pack of white Monster
by her side
and of course
attitude
“Aaah! I really, really hope your
first child fucking dies!” she
screams at the top of
her lungs
into the mic. Obviously addressing
some player in her game.
“Yeah! You heard me! I hope your
child fucking dies and you bury
it so I could go and
dig it the fuck up. Yeah! I’d
bring it home
and shit down its sorry little
throat and then inject my piss
into its little dick hole with a
syringe. And then I’d put a fucking
iron rod through its anus
and see it come out through
the mouth
and roast it like a fucking rotisserie
chicken with a flame torch,
and then film myself while I
fucking eat it!
I’d send you clips every day, fucker!
Every fucking day! You hear me!?”
Yep, that
attitude…
“Achieving your dreams
does not
necessarily bring
happiness,” he says
aloud from the
bed
but she doesn’t hear him
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "the boys will understand"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
flower dog
“It looks like…
A flower dog,” he said, looking
at it with ever
growing fascination
He didn’t know what
a ‘flower dog’ was
but those were the first words
that came to mind
as he beheld the thing
Others would’ve had
different
words for it
like
roadkill
He hit it with the
car this
night
and stopped to pick it up
and took it home
talking to it
along the way
He didn’t know what kind
of animal it was
only that it
was dead now
“I never was smart
when it came
to labeling things,” he said to
the flower dog
now lying on a
square
coffee table that was turned
upside down to
better contain all its scattered
bits and pieces
There was a
surprisingly small amount
of blood though
and a surprisingly large amount
of bone shards
“You are very weird, my
little friend. And I do not
know how you came to be.
I don’t know
a lot of things. But
I will tell you that if God ever
created a
flower dog
you’re it, hehe.”
in the darkness
the flower dog
looked up at him with
bloodshot eyes
that spoke of understanding
and even compassion
after all
it was in the presence of
someone equally
hard to understand
by the world
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "flower dog"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
he’s all over the place
Something wasn’t right
about him
I mean,
the guy was way too rich
and privileged
to have missing teeth
yet his mouth
opened like some rusty dungeon
gate
Every time they tried
to fix his teeth
he’d break them again
intentionally
with the claw of
a hammer
or with a rock when a hammer
wasn’t available
What a lad
He kept all those
rotten vegetables and fruits
and meats under his bed
and in drawers
just to feel the smell of
death
about him
Death was everything
to him
His god
His world
So it’s small wonder that
he eventually
met his idol
or rather
gave himself to it
at age 22
he weighed no more
than a 12 year old
but had the wisdom of
a 62 year old who’d made it
in life
and that’s apparently where
the problem lies
when the mind knows too
much about too many things
it grows interested only
in the supreme thing
Death
and eventually the
body follows
“Dying in a dream is
always followed by
waking up,” he used to say. “For the
mind doesn’t know
what to render in the dream
afterwards and crashes. The dream
ends. Whether it’s a dream or
a nightmare.
Death is the way out.”
He got out, alright.
First out the window
and then
as his body hit the pavement
below
out of this dream
In this moment
he is all over the place
in my writings
first
and in the reader’s mind
second
But it should be fine
since I did not
share his name, right?
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "he’s all over the place"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
a fingernail
he started
late in life
somewhere in
his early fifties
if I recall
and in just a few
very short years he
became
the inspiration and the
motivation for all
things associated with
late blooming
He sure proved to the
world that it’s never
too late for
dreams
“But what made you start?”
I once asked him
and he said, “a fingernail.”
Clearly he wanted me to ask,
‘A fingernail!? Oh my God,
what in heavens do you
actually mean by that, sir?’
but I kept silent
just watched him
and then he
went on
“Yeah. One day
at the age of fifty-three
I just found this
broken fingernail
lying on the floor of my
bedroom. I’ve never even
spoken to a woman in well
over ten years, let alone inviting
one over. Hahah!
So you can imagine my shock
as I observed that broken
fingernail just lying around on
the floor.
Fear was obviously the first,
most primal feeling that
inundated my soul.
And I was right to fear.
For I was indeed stalked
and about to be possessed.
And that, my friend, is how I met
my muse.
It wasn’t some apparition
coming and looking for
her broken fingernail. No. It was
all my fear and morbid curiosity
that brought her into my life,
summoned her
if you will. The mind conjured her
up and
as I started writing about
her, about the event of finding
that fingernail
on my bedroom floor, our
relationship caught
outlines.
But one thing I do know
and that is that
it’s different for every writer.
Your muse might not come to
you in the form mine did,
but don’t give up. Keep
looking, my friend.
And one day, one night, you might
just be surprised by
what you’ll find.”
I thanked him for the
advice and went
home and got drunk
“You wanna write about it
sometime?” she
asked
“Sometime,” I said. “Sure. But not
today.
Today let’s just get drunk and
feel shit and
sit in silence.”
We really
did that
all night
and on the next day
we started writing again
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "a fingernail"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
he’s wrong, but he’ll never know
he rarely goes out
in the summer
mainly just sits
inside
in his shorts
and drinks beer all
day and types
endless words on
a mechanical keyboard
it's not even attached to
anything
not connected
there's nothing to
connect it to
he's got no computer
and no
electronic devices in
the whole house
The keyboard he found
in the dumpster
one day while taking
out the trash
mostly crumpled
beer cans
On that day he was
approached by some homeless
dude
who began calling him stupid
out of nowhere
"Why you do this, man?"
"Do what?" he asked, ready
to throw punches
"The goddamned cans! Why you
throw 'em like this?
Why did you crush 'em?
Now they're worthless!"
The homeless dude was
trying to tell him
that the cans can be
recycled for money
but he would not
understand
He was too much of a wild
beast
too antisocial
he lived among people
but not with them
and would hate them
for no reason
Back inside his
concrete cave
he would imagine
himself loved
and appreciated
by the masses
and would write
songs and
odes for them
all he needed in life
was that
and alcohol
and sure
he thinks he's very unique
in this
but here's where
he's wrong
No matter though
he'll never know
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "he’s wrong, but he’ll never know"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
Daydreaming as a profession 