I was just a kid when he left so I didn’t recognize him
but some of the older guys were quick to offer him a drink
“Who’s he?” I asked
and the only answer I got was “Swineherd.”
They called him the swineherd
He was an okay fellow
knew a few bar tricks and showed us all his glass eye and the hole it covered
shit looked like a butthole when he removed that thing
He spoke about how good it was to be back and the guys asked him if he’s gonna swineherd again and they all laughed together like it was the craziest inside joke ever
I went home drunk that night and it was the kind of drunk that doesn’t provide inspiration
So with nothing to write about I checked out some random news on my feed
One title caught my eye
FARMER ARRESTED AFTER BEING CAUGHT TRANSPORTING COCAINE LODGED INSIDE PIGS’ ANUSES
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
“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
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?
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.”
she had those ridiculously long and sharp fake nails that doubled the length of each finger
Those on the right hand were painted silver and those on the left black
and she liked to poke things with them
and one of those things was my side every time we sat next to each other
at times she’d poke hard enough to hurt her own finger and then would give a mock cry and say it was my fault and then laugh about it
“Aren’t you gonna ask how I wipe my ass with these?” she said
“Nah. I figure too many people did it already.”
“Many people? Whaaaat? Who d’ you imagine I talk to? I don’t interact with many people. No people actually.”
“What about your family?”
“Family… Yeah, I still think about turning on the gas in the house and leaving them to die. They never open a window in that house anyway. It would make it easy.” She poked a nail into the side of her head a few times. “Ah, why am I such a coward?” And then suddenly her eyes lit up. “Say, how about you help me a bit?”
“No thanks. I don’t feel like murdering anybody.”
“Dummy! Who said anything about murder?”
“I could’ve sworn it was implied.”
“Was not! On the contrary! You could actually save some lives if you help me.”
“Oh? And what do I gotta do?”
“Easy! You come home with me an’ we tell ‘em you’re my boyfriend of years and years and I trust you with my life and the life of my dear ones. You have a car, right? Well, you can use it to take my grandma to church. It’s been her dream to go there one last time, you see? But since she’s so old and sick and can’t move and has nobody to help her, well, she suffered a great deal because of it. Grandpa can’t even move from his bed. He’s far worse than her. But we have unfinished business, him and I. And I fear he’ll depart from this world before we can properly settle our scores, you see? So, if you could take grandma to church where she’ll be for about three hours and then bring her back… Well, I’ll get to spend that time alone with my grandpa and…”
“And what?”
“Let’s just say you’d save grandma’s life. She’s mostly innocent. Mostly. It’s the old bastard I wanna have a private talk with, not her. She can live for a few more years. So, um, we got a deal?”
“My car’s broken. I’m waiting to get it fixed.”
Her nails were quick to poke me in the side again “Liar! You don’t wanna do a good deed for a good soul in this ugly world!”
I’m not sure who the good soul was in her view but I’m sure the world she talked about wasn’t ugly
No, it was just very interesting, that’s all
we’re both blessed enough to live in interesting times
Somehow the answer, “he who wins most and loses least is a great gambler,” remains unsatisfactory
It would’ve been fine if we were talking about a boxer for example, but gambling… that’s another hell entirely
winning a lot doesn’t make you a good gambler. A lucky guy maybe but great gambler? Not so much
I don’t think there’s such a thing as a great gambler but I do think this one kid from my hometown came quite close
He didn’t win or lose or gamble a lot in the first place, but he was always the dumbass who said shit like, “Hey! Bet you I can throw this here stone all the way over that there branch on that tree.” And before picking up the stone he’d take out a butterfly knife from some pocket and open it before you. “If I miss, I get eight cuts across the arsehole. But if I don’t miss, you get the cuts.”
Or he’d say, “Look, we stand right here an’ toss the coin at the wall, see? The one that lands closer wins. The loser gets this nail stuck into his dick hole. You in?”
Whenever there was any competition of any kind, he’d instantly come up with something like, “Loser has to cut off his foreskin and wear it like a wedding ring for seven days.”
An’ he was hella serious with that shit too
He wasn’t the smartest fellow in town and I’ve never seen any of those penalties being carried out
Soon as he came of age he suspended all school activity and got a job as a construction worker
I’m pretty sure he never won any money from gambling
Yet he’s still the greatest gambler I know
Cuz no matter what he does he always bets on his life
Daydreaming as a profession 