nothing’s weird at this point

nothing’s weird at this point By Bogdan Dragos

“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 to

People talk to her
but their words have
to pass through
the thinnest filter I’ve ever seen

her 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 hand

Immediately
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 drank

I’m still not sure
if my words
were registered into
her mind
or not

but maybe not knowing
makes it even
better

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "nothing's weird at this point"!

Check it out HERE!

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B09C46RMPS/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=96628550-28a0-4f19-9a78-7717f0614bbd&ref_=ap_rdr

Thank you!

31 July 2026 1

one more coffee

one more coffee by Bogdan Dragos

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!

23 July 2026 8

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!

@bogdan_1_dragos
“pleonasm” POEM by Bogdan Dragos 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
♬ original sound – Bogdan Dragos

16 July 2026 3

it is time to give up

it is time to give up by Bogdan Dragos

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!

9 July 2026 11

he is… you know

he is… you know by Bogdan Dragos

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!

2 July 2026 8

the boys will understand

the boys will understand by Bogdan Dragos

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!

27 June 2026 4

flower dog

flower dog by Bogdan Dragos

“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!

14 June 2026 1

he’s all over the place

he’s all over the place by Bogdan Dragos

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!

4 June 2026 3

a fingernail

a fingernail by Bogdan Dragos

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!

29 May 2026 1

he’s wrong, but he’ll never know

he’s wrong, but he’ll never know by Bogdan Dragos

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!

21 May 2026 3

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