Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
sixty-something thousand words
in a day
"Not bad, kid. Not bad
at all."
That's what he told himself as
he got up from the desk
and looked around the empty room
and by gods, how empty
it was
just like the rest of the
house
and his heart
His reality
Writing,
the loneliest
business in the world...
you can’t unlock the door
when there’s a key
inside the lock
from the other side
right,
all you can do now is
to plead with your kid to
let you in
it’s 12:47 AM
and kid’s got school in the morning
He’s not asleep
because there was no one to tell him
to go to sleep
There was no one home all day
and this late into the night
and he’s pissed
and very hungry, tired and
full of rage
Where have you been all this
time, mom?
Indeed, where have you been?
Better leave the answer
for tomorrow
when the spirits will sizzle
a bit less
Until then
take off your high heels
and the glitter from your face
and the semen from your hair
and lie down on the
doormat and
maybe pray yourself to sleep
It’ll get better. One day
you know it will
Thank you!
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my short story, "not too many horizons"!
Thank you!
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my short story, "no country for romantic men"!
Thank you!
Many thanks to MASTICADORES ROMANIA for publishing this one!
Check out the English version HERE!
Thank you!
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my short story, "The Great One"!
Thank you!
he declared himself insane
before the world
and the world did worse
than not to
believe or ridicule him
The world
ignored him
He was an old writer
with a body
rotting from the inside
A cancer in his lungs, right
around the heart
Effort made him faint
Oftentimes the effort of sitting
on the toilet and pushing
But when he wasn't on the
toilet he
was at his desk
writing
And smoking. There was
a candle on the corner of his desk
always burning
The rule was that for every
seven minutes spent
not writing he'd hold his hand
above the flame for
seven seconds
His hands looked like decomposing
carcasses of mole-rats
but they could
still hold
the pen
He would go on writing
for the rest of
his life
all seven
hours of it
Thank you!
Daydreaming as a profession 