Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Issue 1 of “Suburban Witchcraft Magazine” is now live! ((๑´ᗜ`) isn't the cover absolutely stunning? Wait till you see the rest of the artwork inside!) And I have the honor to be featured in it with a poem titled "she speaks the language of blood". Give it a read HERE! ( ✪ワ✪)ノ Thank you very much!
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the good thing about being young
is that you don’t take
as much damage from falling
ten is a fantastic age
for falling
and for getting into
fights
with other kids
It usually all ends with
a handshake and a
tightened friendship
Unless adults get in the way. It all goes
down when adults get in the way.
Childhood itself goes to
hell when adults get in the way
He feels the
scar on the back of his head
aching every time he thinks of this
of the day father had him
fight another ten year old
He didn’t want to
so father pushed him from the back
and called him a pussy
And then father called him
a pathetic piece of crap after he lost
the fight
Father was a gambler. He bet the other kid’s
father that he’ll win the fight
But he lost miserably…
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Poem written in my original language (Romanian). TRANSLATION: "Um... it doesn't rhyme," she said I looked at her. "You kidding?" And then she shook her head. "No, look, this poem really has no rhymes at all You sure it's the right file?" "Let me see." She handed me her phone and I looked at the text on the screen, smirked, turned off the phone and kissed her "You are truly the cutest," I said. "But, you see, not all poems must have rhymes." "Sure they do. Then why d' you write them? And why should the world bother to read them?" "Good question. Maybe I'll find out one day..."
What Da Cover Says: Horror Sleaze Trash proudly presents the poems of Bogdan Dragos.
What I Says: I have followed Dragos on WordPress for many years now and he has entertained me all that time with some bloody good poems, you are guaranteed to get something dark and fucked-up that will give ya a chuckle….unless it’s just me giggling.
Horror Sleaze Trash presents this mighty fine collection from Dragos, it contains some of his most twisted material, I love how again and again he is able to surprise me with how the poem ends. In my opinion the tone of a poetry collection is always set by the first one, it has to be strong and it needs to get some kind of rise from you or you ain’t gonna enjoy what’s next, Dragos starts us off with “some things can never be put back together” a brilliant start, messed…
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“Lack of love,” she once told him, “can turn
a man into a cracked shell. Turn
his steps into rotten
butterfly wings falling. Turn his
breath into ether. His heart into a sick slug
struggling to escape a haunted bog.”
Sure, sure
but then again his parents told him
long ago when he was a child
that if he kept making ugly faces
he’ll remain like that forever
Well, now his parents weren’t here
and she wasn’t here
He was all alone
with his cat who gently licked at its genitals
besides him on the other pillow
Other than the cat’s saliva
breaking apart in contact with its fur
and skin
there was no sound in the room
it was all so peaceful
There was a gentle drizzle outside
just enough to keep people
and noisy children off the streets
It was perfect
Had she been here
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the woman with the dirty eyes, they called her as she always beheld people like they were but dust in her eyes Her face would make that expression of pure disgust one feels while passing a homeless drunk in the streets. Fallen and stained with piss and feces and blood People weren't worthy to be held in her eyes but the people were everywhere she looked So she looked less into the world and more into her papers where she drew the few things she saw Every human being was drawn with hair covering their eyes and every animal with human eyes, clean eyes she'd been drawing all her life and now more than ever before She had a new dog now. One so meek and so obedient that it allowed her to stretch open its eyes and lick them with her tongue "There is much inspiration to be tasted…
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the pains in his lower back
were killing him
“Fuck,” he said, “that’s what I get for
not investing into
a decent chair.” He reached into
his pack and took
out another cigarette. “But I gotta smoke
to stay alive.
What a shitty life.”
He typed for another 36 minutes
and then
his friend, the fly, came to rest on his
knuckles. He blew smoke
on it. Laughed
The fly had gotten inside a while
ago. It was a big one, very
curious, ever exploring. And now trapped
He never opened the damned windows
or the door
Sat there in his smoke
and rancid smells. Said they helped with
inspiration for writing. Said
no good writing ever came out
of a healthy mind
He leaned back in his broken chair
watched the fly circle around
the naked light bulb in the ceiling
shook his fist at it…
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the bartender was displeased with him and the patrons didn't like him much either He was the sickly, slender man who came at opening time and sat at the table by the window, watching the people outside he sat there until closing time problem was, he occupied that seat for so many hours in a row with only one drink usually a cognac sometimes he would mix all sorts of pills in it and wait for them to dissolve some did others didn't Regardless, he sipped at his drink and watched the people outside and spoke to nobody and seemed never to be bothered by noise, like he was deaf and the days passed and the weeks went by and he'd show up without fail When they did talk about him they called him The Watcher and speculated about his mental illness However, when I went to the bar myself…
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watching the rain fall against the window
while listening to
whiskey blues
and thinking about her
and how great it would’ve been if she
were still alive
Only the whiskey is
missing
and the cigarette
and the willpower to admit that
she never existed in the
first place. Not outside the pages of
the book
he was writing
-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 profession.
-MASTICADORESINDIA
I saw him busy and focused beyond focus over a yellow legal pad that he held in his lap He squeezed the pen like struggling to strangle a snake and his tongue was poked and clasped tight in a corner of his small mouth for maximum concentration "Damn kid," I told him. "Now that's a flow state, if I ever seen one. What's your secret?" He made the briefest eye contact and said, "If I took the time to tell you, I'd lose it." That was the best answer I ever got. The kid was a genius. I was standing in the shadow of a giant right there in that cafe. I beheld a god But his mother wasn't very fond of me talking to her kid as I passed their table to go to the bathroom I tried to explain to her that I also write Kinda... Well that…
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Daydreaming as a profession 