The Building was still Unfinished by Bogdan Dragos

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Terveen Gill's avatarChewers by Masticadores

A troubled and sad woman standing in front a rundown building face
Image Source: Snappa

They will never finish the building

It would stay in its skeletal form

forever

because the government is

corrupt

but then

they all are

so it wasn’t the grandest

tragedy of the world

It was a fun place for

the kids

A place where they pretended to be

monkeys and did parkour

and whatnot

A place where tight friendships

and love were to

be discovered

and kept hidden in the various

incomplete rooms

and under unfinished stairs

The unfinished building was the

wonderland of a truly magical childhood

And it was still unfinished by

the time childhood ended

It’s been twenty years

and her girlfriends kept asking

her why she wasn’t

dating or starting a family

She just shrugged. Said she didn’t

want to hurt any men

It was enough those twenty years

ago when she

told a boy that he had to

walk across the high…

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9

you cannot kill a poet by Bogdan Dragos

j re crivello's avatarGobblers by Masticadores

young people, they think nobody has the same thoughts as them they take great pride in some made up originality as if really nobody ever thought up scenarios of themselves descending some rope from some helicopter and dropping in the middle of enemy forces and starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an shit and killing all the bad guys while not taking one bullet One man army or there’s those other thoughts of being simply the greatest at some sport and being admired and envied for it also, the thoughts of sex in all its forms the thoughts of mindless violence of saving the day of being somewhere else and doing something else all kinds of thoughts and all the minds who think them label them as original but they’re not original they’re every young person’s thoughts and me, I also have thoughts I consider original I think of…

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35

Just an Illusion by Bogdan Dragos

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Terveen Gill's avatarChewers by Masticadores

The black and white close up of a young woman's face with the features replicated and overlapping one another
Image Source: Snappa

like it’s been painted a million

times, the room

seemed smaller

narrower

suffocating. The

window too small, the

door too sturdy,

ceiling too low

and the generator of

the illusion

stood across from her on the bed

He’s been around for a year

and six months

Result of her first

and surely last

non-aborted pregnancy

It was like all the rage and bitterness

of the previous three

remained in her womb as residue

and had seeped into this

fourth one

who would punish her for the rest of her

life

But of course this too

was just an illusion, it was only in her mind,

remnant of a failed

creative writing career…

Across from her on the bed

stood but a normal child

but gods, it was more than enough

for someone who wanted none

-BOGDAN DRAGOS

Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour…

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11

lab rat by Bodgan Dragos

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j re crivello's avatarGobblers by Masticadores

so, you're writing poetry or, well, at least you pretend to and you pretend you're good at it and the people want more from you nice but how come none of what you write is uplifting stuff? if anything, you've got more depressing shit than uplifting stuff and you expect to get popular with that? get real! you've got to inspire people you've got to write motivational stuff, uplifting, hope giving stuff, upbeat verses brimming with intelligence and radiating brilliance your words are like confetti on a page why are they so scattered? what poem is this? why does it start with a lowercase letter? are you dumb? Don't you know how to write? you're unbelievable, man, unbelievable and don't even mention the nonexistence of rhymes, pfff, lame... this is not a goddamn poem, fool it's child's mockery and you should grow up and stop pretending you're doing this for…

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24

Savages by Bogdan Dragos

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Terveen Gill's avatarChewers by Masticadores

A sad, small boy has covered his face with his hands
Image Source: Snappa

Wasn’t the best house for

a five-year-old

It was just a small room above the

bar his mother worked in

and it was open until late at night

and he couldn’t sleep because

of the noise

He imagined savages going

at each other, fighting to the death,

and then laughing in celebration

of victory

and he wasn’t too far from the truth

His mother would come

into the room from time to time

to get something or

to leave something in her locker

She had no time for him

And lately she kept coming with

blood on her clothes

He imagined she must clean up after

all those savages, pick

their dead bodies up

and bury them

It was unfair. Her only reward was

a spit’s worth of flour

that she was too tired to cook

with. So

she just snorted it through her nose

and went…

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26

sidewalk by Bogdan Dragos

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j re crivello's avatarGobblers by Masticadores

I am a sidewalk

one upon whom your
feet dragged heavy and
wet and tired

and I wonder where you
are going
and where you're coming
from

I look up constantly and
am tired of soles and legs and
panties and dropped coins
and litter

and indifference

Too many people, too few dogs
and cats and some rats at night

But you are
different. You wear no shoes and
your little feet are cold and
so delicate
and in your wake you are painting
me with a trail of blood

you are not in the mood to
receive compliments, I know. But
I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful

I hope he never catches you

I wish there was
something I could do
about it

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30

Kissed So Hard by Bogdan Dragos

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A close up of a pair of red lips and parted teeth holding metal pieces
Image Source: Snappa

“Have you ever kissed a lover

so hard

you chipped a tooth?”

she asked

with a grin that

revealed more than one

chipped tooth

He shook his head. “No, and I

really don’t intend

to.”

Well, that’s what you get

for hitting

on a girl you meet

in the yard of the local asylum. But

she said she was a

nurse.

“Anyway,” he said. “If this is what happened

to you… What happened

to him? I mean,

after the kiss.”

“Oh, there were many,

many kisses actually,” she said. “He’s

dead now.”

“What? He died?”

“Well, yeah, dogs don’t

live that much. Compared to humans

I mean.”

-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…

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36

to melt the shackle

it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause 

He looked around
and saw 
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
staring at him

“Congratulations, they said. You
have awakened.” 

“What in the hell?” he 
said, looking around 
startled. “Who are you?” 

“The messengers,” replied 
the shadows. “We are very pleased
to announce that you 
may collect your prize 
whenever you are ready. You’ve 
earned it.” 

“What? What did 
I do?” 

“You awakened. In a world of 
sleepers
you woke up
and are therefore eligible for
ascension. You might follow
us through the hole 
in the ceiling whenever you
are ready. All that’s left
to do here is
to melt the shackle.” 

“What?” he said

Then one of the shadows
gave him a small 
bottle that smelled strongly
of gasoline 
and a box of matches 

The other shadows
pointed to 
his desk, to all the papers
stacked on it
and under it 
and all around it

“Those are my poems,” he said

“Indeed. They represent 
everything that keeps you 
tied to this world. Your shackle.
Burn your shackle and melt it
away so you can ascend
and take flight. The time 
has come.” 

“I worked all my life
to write those 
poems,” he said

“Yes, you did. But now that you
are awake you see that
they’re all in vain. For 
nothing is real
on this plane. It’s all 
a dream, of course. You have 
designed it pretty nice. A simple
dream spent entirely in
the confines of a narrow room
with low ceiling. Drinking
and smoking and 
writing all day long 
and late into the night. It’s 
a beautiful dream. No family,
no friends, no communication with the 
outside world, and no desire
for any. You’ve thus taken 
a shortcut to awakening, but it’s by
no means illegal. You’re still
eligible for ascension. So,
whenever you’re ready, we are.” 

He watched the shadows

The shadows watched him

He reached out for the 
gasoline and matches, looked over
to the desk and the stacks
of paper

Looked for a long
time

Closed his eyes
and went back to sleep 

The shadows were gone
by the morning
but they left the gasoline and
matches 
behind

He got out of bed
went to the desk 
by the window
opened the blinds
and started writing
another poem
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My Book

121

poets and happy endings by Bogdan Dragos

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j re crivello's avatarGobblers by Masticadores

"When you no longer
see the shadow of what
kept you strong
it's time to let go."

Those would be the last words
he wrote
at the back of the notebook
he filled with thoughts
and rants
and poems

‘Thoughts That Come From
The Heart’
was the title

and the work will remain
for long after he'd
pass away

At least that was the plan

But alas,
as he gave his final breath the
cigarette rolled from his fingers
to the desk and all the way
down on the shaggy carpet

It was a matter of minutes
until the
whole room became
a snapshot from the inferno

It's almost like the gods
want to send
a message. They want to
say that poets
rarely
if ever
have happy endings

I'm starting to
believe that
more and
more as
the days pass

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18

I am birds

the other night she went to
sleep 
listening to 
subliminal audios

and woke up in the morning
saying, “I am birds. Many, many
birds trapped together in
a bag of silk. This thing
that the world looks
at and calls my body is but 
a bag of silk
that traps birds inside. I am not
the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I 
am the birds inside the bag. And
I must get out!” 

She ran into 
the bathroom

Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,”
he said, shaking his head. 
“To think that she could’ve
been a doctor, or a lawyer, or
an engineer. She could’ve
been anything. But she 
chose to study
creative writing in college. Now
she’s a poetess... 
and we are no more than
characters lost
in her verses.”
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My New Book

86

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