Daydream
and then, maybe, write about it
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FeaturedFACING THE DARK CORNER – New collection of dark poetry
NEW Poetry Collection – FACING THE DARK CORNER
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FeaturedREALITY 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. -
nothing’s weird at this point
“They call it demon possession,” she
said, her hands
busy struggling to open a
beer bottle
that was already opened.“Maybe you should
stop drinking,” I said. “It really
looks like you’ve had enough.”but of course
she doesn’t hear that. She only
hears what she wants toPeople talk to her
but their words have
to pass through
the thinnest filter I’ve ever seenher mind
So because she didn’t hear me, or
rather her mind did not
register my words and
their meaning, she went on with
her story and
with trying to open an
already opened beer bottle.
“I think I was only… um, sixteen. On that
night I shot my older brother in his
sleep. Killed him dead.
Stole his keys and took his
car and went for…
what d’ you call that?”“A joy ride?” I said
“Hahahah! Yeah. A joy ride.”
Now she did hear me. Cuz I
behaved according to
her script“I did not crash the
car. Didn’t even scratch it! I never
went through driver’s ed
but still I drove
better than my bro. I was made
for driving. But then, you know, I just
returned home
and I told my mother everything
that happened. With a smile on my pretty
face. I mean, it was super pretty
back then. You should’ve seen me.
I have pics, but they’re still nothing
like the real thing.
You would’ve soooo wanted to
fuck me back then, I guarantee.”“I would’ve been fourteen
back then,” I said. “Would you have
left a boy two years your
junior hit?”But it was another thing
her mind didn’t
register“It’s all I could think about. I don’t know,
is it weird to say that… That
a car ride, that joy ride had
caused my sexual awakening?
Perhaps the surge
of adrenaline caused me to
become immeasurably… um, horny.
D’ you think it’s weird?”“Nothing’s weird
at this point,” I said, actually
taking the beer bottle away
from her handImmediately
her hands went to her
hair
and grabbed at random
and pulled
playfully
while she bit her lips.
“Ah, a long story follows.
Mother called the authorities
and I was taken
into this… uh, this place for
troubled teens. Was too young to
go to prison, haha.
And the biggest issue here was…
I mean, I was really disappointed. Not
one, not a single one of
the staff members
wanted to… you know, to do
it with me. Not the men, not the
women. Not even the other
teenagers.
Can you believe this shit?
All those stereotypes of
mental asylum workers abusing
their patients… Fake! All of them.
Couldn’t even get
a smile from them, let alone
a fuck.
And eventually they quenched
this desire of mine. With
meds.
I don’t even know what they
gave me, but
in time, they numbed me for good.
And now… I don’t even make
the difference
between penetration
and wiping with toilet paper.
Feels the same to me.
What good is a body if it can’t
make love?”“It can tell stories,” I said
At this
she smiled
and leaned over
and took the
beer bottle from me
and drankI’m still not sure
if my words
were registered into
her mind
or notbut maybe not knowing
makes it even
better -
one more coffee
A customer spat into
her face
todaysaid the coffee she prepared
was too hotand she refused to
get the authorities
involvedtold the manager
she forgave the guyShe was like that
Every time someone wronged
her with something
she’d be as quick to forgive as a
childIt was nice working
with herThough she was also
one of those people who were
a bit too good for
their own goodHence she never got a raise
in over five yearsthey just knew she wouldn’t
mind. She’d just
forgive and move onIt was exactly
soAt the end of the shift
she went back to her
one room apartment
and stared
at the
blank wall
and smiledLife 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 shopOne day I’ll muster up
the courage
to ask her
to be my museI just know she’ll answer
with, “Darling, I already am.”But until then
I’ll just have
one more coffeeThank you
-
pleonasm
he wouldn’t let go
of that booknobody knew what it
was
because nobody could
pry it off his hands to
have a lookEh, 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 rightBut 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
askand this question made him
leave
and go to the next doorOne 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 herOnly,
the kid ran out and
asked for helpCops were called and they took
him to the stationsomeone 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 itIt 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 -
it is time to give up
Yeah,it’s one of thoseeveningswhen realityjust doesn’t want tocooperateWhen you’ve given ityour alland feel like there’snothing left butto mournthe pages layscattered aboutlike autumn leaves, onlywith less valueAt least the leavesserve a purpose, don’t they?while the pages you’vewritten…The beer also tasteslike vomited sulfur You even forgot todrag from the cigaretteyou’ve just litand the ashes fall on your… Read more
-
“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 cloudsthe sun
just didn’t bother
anymorelate autumn
It seemed
nobody bothered
too muchthere were almost
fifty people thereall gathered for the
funeralHe 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 particularA few did hear him
but most didn’tWeird 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.” -
the boys will understand
one more scroll with
the thumb on the
screen
reveals an ad
with a message that
reads
YOUR DREAM COMING TRUEHe immediately
skips itbut the mind
dwells on it
a bit longerDream come true?
People should stop
associating
the achievement of dreams
with happinessIt’s rarely, if ever, the same
thingHe 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 PCShe’s got headphones on
and the mic activatedShe’s got it
allSpiky
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 sideand 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 -
flower dog
“It looks like…
A flower dog,” he said, looking
at it with ever
growing fascinationHe didn’t know what
a ‘flower dog’ was
but those were the first words
that came to mind
as he beheld the thingOthers would’ve had
different
words for itlike
roadkillHe hit it with the
car this
night
and stopped to pick it up
and took it hometalking to it
along the wayHe didn’t know what kind
of animal it wasonly 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 piecesThere was a
surprisingly small amount
of blood thoughand 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 compassionafter all
it was in the presence of
someone equally
hard to understand
by the world -
he’s all over the place
Something wasn’t right
about himI mean,
the guy was way too rich
and privileged
to have missing teethyet his mouth
opened like some rusty dungeon
gateEvery time they tried
to fix his teeth
he’d break them againintentionally
with the claw of
a hammer
or with a rock when a hammer
wasn’t availableWhat 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 himDeath was everything
to himHis god
His world
So it’s small wonder that
he eventually
met his idol
or rather
gave himself to itat 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 lifeand that’s apparently where
the problem lieswhen the mind knows too
much about too many things
it grows interested only
in the supreme thingDeath
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 thenas his body hit the pavement
belowout of this dream
In this moment
he is all over the placein my writings
first
and in the reader’s mind
secondBut it should be fine
since I did not
share his name, right? -
a fingernail
he started
late in lifesomewhere in
his early fifties
if I recalland in just a few
very short years he
became
the inspiration and the
motivation for all
things associated with
late bloomingHe sure proved to the
world that it’s never
too late for
dreams“But what made you start?”
I once asked himand 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 nightand on the next day
we started writing again
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Daydreaming as a profession 
Happiness comes two ways , my father taught me, BY faith, and Hard Work, enjoyed your writings.
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Thank you (^_^)
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I believe there may be a few philosophers left. Their voices may have been drowned in the multiple seas of social media but I think poets are somewhat philosophers, They dream and think outside the box. Thanks for stopping by Poemattic.
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Hope things are cool and hot DR., I’m a bit curious, I was looking over your work, and wonder if you do any strip writing ? I ‘m working on a book that will be a finish play. I don’t want it to get to much graphic dialog but need the iron words to push these concepts. Any suggestions. Like instead of B, or F, MF, I thought Bush Wet, Funk n Fish, Mold Food, well if you get a minute, Thanks.
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Hey hello, so nice meeting you! I saw you liked my post on trees, thank you so much!
Lovely poetry by the way!
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ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ
I thank you
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When I initially commented I clicked the “Notify me when new comments are added” checkbox and now each time a comment is added I get several e-mails with the same comment. Is there any way you can remove me from that service? Appreciate it!
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I am a little confused about your logic?
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Sure.. as an idea-unfortunately doomed to fail in practice, never mind eh?
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NvGaiprOcdbI
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uZyxIhpBWE
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hi this is a awesome website that you have thanks for sharing it with the world.
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hi this is a great site that you have thanks for sharing it with the human race.
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hi this is a awesome site that you have thanks for sharing it with the world.
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found you thank god
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you think he’d buy me mozzarella sticks
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you think so image
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Brantley
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Bellissimo lavoro,bravo continua cosi!!
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Very interesting site. Visually, on all fronts. Nice. “They” just posted a thing saying we aren’t real–just players in some virtual reality game. I have always done a lot of daydreaming and writing, but not much poetry. Looking forward to reading your work. Might get me back at mine…
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God, I LOVE “Fasting for Muses.”
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٩( ^ᴗ^ )۶
Thanks!
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Hello Bogdan,
You liked one of my Umbriate posts so I thought I’d drop in. Intriguing writing. Reading through your poetry I find…well, not sure how to put it–it resonates is the best thing that comes to mind. Glad I dropped by and will be returning. Thank you.
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Thank you very much for stopping by, Eric!
I’ll check some more of your stuff as well.
Subscribed 🙂
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