Tag: art

too late is too late

Wherever you hear about a drinking
problem
you expect the man to be
violent and vulgar and turn abusive
and destructive

well
it wasn’t the case with him

There was a drinking problem there
for sure
but all it cursed him with
was sleep and sometimes
verses

He’d start writing after
drinking

But he was a kind man and a great
lover
and his wife had a hard time
convincing her family and friends
and neighbors
that a man who has a separate trashcan
only for bottles and beer cans
is not a man who strikes his wife,
not even with words

Well, none of
them read his poetry

and by the time he died of
cirrhosis it was
too late

You can’t scold a dead man for
having written thousands upon thousands
of pages of
splatter-punk gore and abuse fantasies
involving his wife
her family
her friends
neighbors
and everyone he knew, including minors
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98

more than enough to explain by Bogdan Dragos

j re crivello's avatarMasticadoresAfrica

there was nothing
to explain here

the man’s wife told them
everything they
needed to know

Her husband wrote poetry

Yes, that would be enough
to explain why
he cut off his penis
and tried to use it
as a pen
before collapsing
on the desk,
blood pooling
at his feet below

Being a poet was
more than enough
explanation for
what he did

She didn’t need
to tell the paramedics
that her husband
had been looking
for inspiration

“He’s a poet,”
was more than
enough

They understood

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35

Two Bullets

.'s avatarThe Yard: Crime Blog

By Bogdan Dragos

she came out of the bathroom with
the pink towel wrapped
around her and found
him sprawled on the bed

very thoughtful

He held in his right hand
two bullets
that he constantly rubbed against each
other with a kind
of obsession

She jokingly said, “So, one for me
and one for you?”

“No,” he said. “One for everyone else in
the world but you and I.”

“Haha, nice,” she said. “Anyway, why do you
always carry those bullets
around?”

“Eh, no particular reason,” he lied

The bullets carried all the
reasons in the world. He
carried them in his pocket ever since seventh
grade when he was mere
steps away from using them on his
bullies

But then
one day
she just showed up and was nice
to him
and the depression became a little less heavy,
just enough to be carried through
the years of…

View original post 125 more words

32

The great one by Bogdan Dragos

j re crivello's avatarMasticadoresAfrica

His name was always linked to the term elusive and he was universally acknowledged as a brilliant writer and an enchanted poet. And the day came when his little apartment reeked of rotting flesh and the authorities had to break his door down.

There was no family to inform but the whole country was now his family and there would be no problem regarding the burial. Oh, he would go with a ceremony that was bound to become national event. But luckily for the authorities the media didn’t smell the rotting yet. The four cleaners who sealed the apartment and entered to perform the expertise called themselves big and biggest fans of the great, late writer.

“Can you believe this?” one of them said. “We’re alone here with, dare I say it, unpublished manuscripts of The Great One. Oooh, I’m tingling just thinking about it.”

“God, look at this room…

View original post 539 more words

12

The New Guy

New feature in The Yard: Crime Blog
ヽ(´ー｀)ﾉヽ(´ー｀)ﾉヽ(´ー｀)ﾉ

.'s avatarThe Yard: Crime Blog

By Bogdan Dragos

there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless

He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts

and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
reading

“Check out the new guy,” they
said. “An intellectual. Heh, hey buddy,
what you reading that for? Not like
you gonna get a degree that’ll take
your ass outta here anytime soon. Haaahahah!”

He was reading his own poems
from a time when
he was young and his dreams were
still alive

Today nothing was alive
but misery itself

(Bio: 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 at bogdandragos.com
He has a book…

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20

Green Cotton Candy

.'s avatarThe Yard: Crime Blog

by Bogdan Dragos

from 07:30 in the morning and until
09:00 he stands by
the clothes store
and stares at his image in the gray window

He’s wearing a green suit
that now looks kinda brown and feels
in the same time
heavy with accumulated dirt
and light with missing patches

The people pass by him and look either
at their phones or away

At 09:30 he departs from the clothes store
and paces towards the
metro station
where he’ll spend the remainder of the day
playing the accordion for
uninterested ears

Still, some would toss
a coin or two in his hat. Out of mercy
or simply because they
were bothered by the change in their pockets

When the sun sets outside
he emerges from the underground
weighting his earning in one hand

He has a quick pace
despite never eating and never sleeping

The cotton candy stand is…

View original post 94 more words

4

all we need is love

“and I still hadn’t changed my
opinion,” she said. “I still
believe that
a double suicide is the absolute
highest
display of love there is. Think about it,
two lovers dying in each
other’s arms. What in hell
can be more romantic?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “staying alive
for each other’s sake, maybe?”

“What? That’s, like, not
romantic at all. The longer you stay alive,
the higher your chances to fall
out of love. Nothing
chews at love like life does. That’s
why death is the answer.
It’s the only way
to immortalize love. It’s the way towards
that plane of existence where all
you feel is love and nothing else.
I wanna go there!” She squeezed her fists
and eyes, braced herself as
she said it.

“Well,” he said, “We’re both out of a job,
unwanted by family, no home,
no cash, no future…”

“All we really need
is love!” she screamed, jumping into his arms

“Yeah,” he said, “and an overdose.”

“I’m with you, dearest cousin!”
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69

bit by bit, little by little

there were times when she bit and
chewed the inside
of her elbow

to spit the bits of flesh
and the blood
on her grandma

but those times were over

almost forgotten

along with the teachings that
her blood is poisoned
because she was conceived with the
wrong woman, meaning
not the one grandmother intended for
her father

But today all those
people were dead. Only father was
alive

He was all right. A hard working
man, busy with life

busy enough not to notice
that his daughter
is constantly sprinkling ashes in
his food and coffee

He’d almost consumed the
contents of
his mother’s urn

there’s just
a bit left
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55

So they asked ‘what does your ideal girl look like?’ by Bogdan Dragos

j re crivello's avatarMasticadoresAfrica

4779 digital pages filled
with ramblings
about feelings

thousands of
grammar and
spelling mistakes

a broken heart
consuming itself

a final 'goodbye' that came
out of a lover’s mouth long ago
still echoing in the ears

a stadium-load of cockroaches
and rats partying
in the house

a mailbox chocking
on unpaid bills

her room a mass grave
of empty bottles
snowed with ash

no income

electricity about to
be cut off

and she’s still
writing

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32

we gotta spend more time together

“I was ten years old,” she said,
her head resting on
my shoulder. “And the flames
covered the damn sky. Though our
neighbor was actually
lucky. Lucky I
didn’t burn his house. I mean,
motherfucker had it
coming. You don’t run over a girl’s
puppy and expect to
get out scratch free, you know?”

“I too had a neighbor
who ran over
my puppy with his tractor,” I said.
“I think I was also around
ten.”

“And what did you do
about it?” she asked

“Nothing,” I said

“What? But how?”

“Like I said, I was just some
insignificant kid from
the countryside. All I could
do was cry.”

“My God,” she said, “that’s so
fucking lame. Where’s
that neighbor of
yours today?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he’s dead.
He was pretty old
when it all happened.”

“If that’s the case then
you have the duty to
go piss on his grave. At least.”

“Um… I wouldn’t know where
that is. And besides,
I learned to forgive.”

“That’s what the weak say. What
kind of man are you?”

“One who doesn’t hold grudges?”

She sighed. “We gotta spend
more time together.”

“And learn from one another?” I asked

She didn’t reply
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46

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