Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
The world was growing colder because the weather was akin to people’s hearts, he was told in a dream The people had denied him the world and he was left with the backstreet dumpster And he had to share the backstreet dumpster with the dogs Or rather the dogs had to share it with him Regardless, they agreed and at least this corner of the world was a little warmer
he deliberately chose the nastiest sound for the alarm clock Zeeeehhweeeehhchhh and there it went again Every four hours. Announcing that he had to start the engine again lest he froze to death The phone had 17% battery left. He would need to visit the library again for a recharge but it was becoming increasingly […]
keeping that spark by Bogdan Dragos
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To work at the peak
of the desert heat
The adults told him he’d need
an injection for that
and the man dressed in white
grabbed his arm and lifted it
and stung him with the needle in the shoulder
and injected the serum
It took away all doubt
from his mind
and all weariness from his heart
and limbs
He was ready
“Good boy,” the adults said
and patted him on the back
They gave him an assault riffle,
one he’d held and used
before for practice,
and sent him out of camp
and towards the enemy soldiers
It’ll be fine
-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.
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It is known You can never hold on to an adventurer and she was one And she was gone and he stood by the window and smelled the guitar she left behind, not knowing how to play it A girl like her travels around the world like a sailor and loves many boys and men and they never forget her The one mistake they all share is trying to lock her in their world It’s like trying to capture the sun’s light in a bag and take it into your dark house Women like her are responsible for men who call themselves romantics and write love poems and dream He struck the cords of the guitar once. Looked out the window. Warm, sunny day. Streets busy with children running fast, passing by adults who walked slow
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that guitar is useless in
his hands now
He spent over ten thousand
hours playing
It’s all he does, really
He has all the time
in the world
after the accident that
rendered his legs
useless
He sits in bed or in
the wheelchair all day
and plays the guitar
but it’s all useless
He’s lacking the fire
in his eyes
All his songs are the
same song
A sad tune
And the lyrics are all in
his mind
and they’re darker than his
eyes
Colder
The other day his
mother found a
knife in his room,
under the mattress
He said the guitar wasn’t
enough anymore
The guitar was fine so far
because the cords
brought feeling
to his fingers
but now that the fingers
had gone completely numb
with thick skin
he wanted to
pick up the violin
for a change
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos…
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sunny day outside
streets full
of people seeking water
and cold beers
overcast day inside
the cold, irregular walls
of the basement
in the abandoned building
The clouds are alive
and very annoying
She slaps his forehead
with a sloppy hand
soaked in vomit
“Ouch!” he screams
And she says, “I can’t stand
these fucking
fruit flies. Why must
they follow everywhere we go?”
He turns around
on the wool blanket and
shoves away a few empty bottles
of cheap wine
and
drops his head onto
her naked lap. “Because, baby, we’re
putrid. You and I, we’re both
dead on the inside
and out. And the fruit flies
love the smell
and taste of our bodies. Especially
when they come
together and sweat a lot.”
His hand grabs at
her upper thigh
and the fingers
tap playfully along the
piano-key-like cut marks
that adorn it
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she looks up at me with eyes hidden, almost locked, behind thick bars of hair that reaches all the way to her small nose Hair discolored like dry straw, second in paleness only to her ghostly face She doesn’t stare too much because there are other things to see in the room She moves on. Not knowing that I also stared at her. Into her soul I’ve spotted an unquenched cry there The easiest to recognize is the cry of loss and that’s what I saw there paired with the cry of want She wants to get away from here Far, far away. She wants to go and never stop. Wants to travel into forever and I’d like to take her there But alas, I am stuck here onto this wall frozen in time I'm a static painting And my cold words void of any vibration will never reach her I have to make my peace with it. Yeah, some people just don’t read poetry. And even if they do, what are the chances they’d read mine? Wow, what a fool I can be at times But, well, at least I have my dreams and myself to laugh at You don’t need much else in eternity
A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all about him and wood above But this was so far from hell Hell was a thing of the past now Now he had her by his side She was still sleeping in her rugged sleeping bag For the past few days they slept under the cabin to avoid being ambushed inside He knew she wouldn’t be by his side for long. The infection in her mouth was really getting out of control putting her one outrageous fever away from death This was the world today A warm wasteland full of predators and no medical help of any kind. Kill or be killed. Law of the jungle. And so on He liked to believe he adapted Too many didn’t His luck stood in not having that much of a fine life…
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Image Source: Snappa “I tried to hire my mentally ill brother,” he said. “I gave him a knife. He’s forbidden to touch them but I gave him one anyways and told him to use it on me. That was my strategy for productive writing. My brother would stand by the door and I told him […]
Strategy for Productive Writing by Bogdan Dragos
well it’s been about four days of fasting Four days of eating nothing but smoke from his cigarettes so it was difficult to tell whether the woman who sat in his bathtub and smoked some of his cigarettes and watched him writing on his desk was real or not “Of course I’m real, you dumbass!” […]
fasting for muses by Bogdan Dragos
Daydreaming as a profession 