Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
as a kid there's nothing like wasting away inside a tiny room sitting on the backrest of the couch looking out the window and seeing her tread through the rain a red umbrella covers her. Mother she's going back to the liquor store
the room was cold and there were gray flowers of dampness blooming all over the walls He took off his shoes and the shoes were the warmest things in the room so the kitten climbed into one of them He sat on the mattress in the corner and petted the cat in the shoe He smiled and said to the kitten, "At least I have no debts." Even God agreed with him. He winked through the hole in the ceiling
There was a knock in the door at about six AM He wouldn't have opened if he didn't check through the peephole. It was his aunt. Why would she visit at a time like this? When he opened the door she slapped him across the face. "You fucking monster! You had the money, you motherfucker! You had the money all along! You could pay for your mother's operation and you didn't. You watched her die in horrible pains! How can you live with yourself?" Ah yes, he knew what she was talking about. But there was no point explaining. He closed the door in her face went back to bed "Who was it?" his girlfriend asked. "Another one of your crazy exes?" "No. It was my aunt who doesn't have what I call internet education." "What?" "Internet education, dear. Rule number one: not everything you see on social media is true. Just because I pose at the wheel of a brand-new Lamborghini doesn't mean I own the damn car and am therefore rich as fuck, you know?" "What kind of idiot would think that?" "Oh, you'd be surprised..."
She came from work pretty early and I knew when I saw her that she quit yet again She changed four jobs in the last five months and got a tattoo that said APATHY on her lower back Her father died five months ago. He died of what's called almost-drunk-driving He was sipping on a beer bottle while driving fairly slow on a country road But the front wheels hit some log or something and the impact triggered the airbag It bloomed in his face and stabbed the beer bottle into his eye causing him a major trauma to the brain R.I.P old man. Maybe not your wife but your daughter sure will miss you She's coming from work dirty and ragged Approaches me and demands a cigarette I give her a small lighter and she tells me to go fuck myself "Well you're done with work early today," I tell her. "I quit," she says. "Really? What was it this time?" "What's every time, deepshit. The boss or the coworkers or the customers. Or all of them. Motherfuckers expect you to work on holidays. Imagine that. Like, Christmas is in three days, for fuck's sake." "I work on holidays," I say "That's cuz you's a pussy-ass-bitch who won't say no when you mean it. You're like... all the rest of 'em." "Maybe," I say. "But also, if I'm at work I don't have to be with my relatives and that's a plus in my book." "Pff, yeah, whatever. Lend me a ten, will ya?" "Best I can do is a five. And you can keep the lighter."
by Dragos Bogdan
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.
…
Artist: Anna Garrett
Dragos Bogdan works as a dispatcher for a Romanian gambling company (supervising casinos) and part of the work means spending twelve hours alone in the office which is perfect for observing people, daydreaming, and writing poems—which he primarily e-mails to himself.
Dad was fat all his life
Obese
He couldn’t do a lot of things.
Walk without special help
Bathe
Climb stairs
Sit in a normal chair
Drive a normal car
Sleep in a normal bed
And say “I love you, son.”
To draw those words out
of his dad he became a cartoonist,
but that also failed.
And now that his father
was dead,
collapsed face down
on the kitchen floor,
blood seeping out of a head wound,
he struggled to turn him over
on his back
and dipped his finger in the blood
and drew a speech bubble
next to his father’s head
and wrote in it the famous words.
Finally.
“I love you too, dad.”
the old man stank but he stank more of booze and cheap tobacco than filth his mouth missed a lot of teeth and his eyes would never look in the same direction at once but worst of all were his hands Now those were really messed up He claimed he had paint tanks under his nails and he wasn’t lying he was mad but not a liar He could paint wherever he was on any surface And he did pressing the stump of his fingers against walls and furniture triggered immediate bleeding and then he would trace on and draw something Usually a penis or some hairy cunt or some silhouettes fucking or something like that Then he’d step back admire his creation and laugh and suck at his bloody fingers Ol’ Bloody Brush was a celebrity around the block He never had to buy a drink for himself There was always someone to treat him, an admirer a fan, a disciple Yeah, at 66 Ol’ Bloody Brush was living the life unlike other wannabe artists who devoted their existence to the craft and got nowhere These guys, they had the talent and the drive but Ol’ Bloody Brush, he had the madness and the world was coming to learn the difference
In the afterlife the creatures that
gathered around him
asked, “Why did you do it? Why
did you jump in
front of that train?”
He shrugged. “Life wasn’t
worth living anymore. And I wanted
revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Yes, revenge.”
“On whom?”
“On the man driving the train, obviously.
My wife was divorcing
me, a lawyer, to be with a
locomotive engineer. Can you believe that?
So I had to do
something about it. I jumped in
front of his train
and now he’s got PTSD, depression,
he’s about to lose his job,
my wife has second thoughts
about being with him. His life’s nasty, alright.”
“Woah... you’re a smart man.”
mashed potatoes
poached eggs
beans
and some homemade garlic sauce
but no meat for the
princess's sensitive stomach
"I'm full," she said
"No, you are not," said mother. "Eat up. Finish
everything from your plate
and trust me, it's been calculated. It's
the right amount. Now eat up."
Father agreed. Being a step-father he
didn't have much of a say in this
matter or any other
It took the princess another twenty
minutes to finish the
food from her plate
and then stood
and went to the bathroom but
it wouldn't be that simple. Mother had to go in
with her
And she did
and both of them came out and
the princess went to her
room
and mother started cleaning the table
always just one step away from
bursting into tears
which gave her new husband some work
with emotional support and all
A princess doesn't steal
but this was a desperate princess
she locked the door to her room
and pulled out from under her
shirt the
roll of plastic bags
took one
opened it
sat on the bed leaning forward
elbows on knees
face before the bag
and she didn't even have to
put the fingers in her mouth
the vomit just came
every bit of mashed potatoes
and poached eggs and every pea
and the homemade garlic sauce
She tied the bag
it felt very warm in her hands
placed it under her bed
got her phone and sent a text
in twenty-something minutes
he was under her window
and she threw him the bag of vomit
and he walked away with it
carried it to a trash bin far from her home
He was such a sweet guy for
doing all this for her
He was her prince
Except he still kept his frog form
even after all the kisses and blowjobs
after school
but well,
when you're desperate...
Daydreaming as a profession 