she looks up at me with
eyes hidden, almost locked,
behind
thick bars of hair
that reaches all the way to
her small nose
Hair discolored like
dry straw,
second in paleness only
to her ghostly face
She doesn’t stare too much
because there
are other things to see
in the room
She moves
on. Not
knowing that I also stared
at her. Into her soul
I’ve spotted an unquenched
cry there
The easiest to
recognize is the cry of loss
and that’s what I saw there
paired with
the cry of want
She wants to get away
from here
Far, far away. She wants to go
and never stop. Wants
to travel into
forever
and I’d like to
take her
there
But alas,
I am stuck here onto
this wall
frozen in time
I'm a static
painting
And my cold
words
void of any vibration
will never reach her
I have to make my peace
with it. Yeah, some
people just don’t read
poetry. And even if
they do, what are the chances
they’d read mine?
Wow, what a fool I can be at times
But, well, at least
I have my dreams
and myself to laugh at
You don’t need much else
in eternity
the old boy
wakes up three hours ahead of
the world that lives in concrete buildings
and one hour ahead of the
competition
and emerges from his damp tent
looks around the park
looks at the sky
Overcast
He stretches a bit and scratches his
head
and walks over to the fountain
and has a drink
collects some mint leaves
chews on them
spits
and rinses his mouth
The work clothes are already on him
Boots
two pairs of socks
cotton and wool
faded jeans
a shirt
a sweater
and coat over them
mittens
and a cap that covers his ears as well
It's now time to set about
collecting tin cans around the neighborhood
to make just enough for
a meal and a half
and maybe a few cigarettes sold
individually
It's been
enough years for all this to become
routine
When you don't know of any better you
don't expect any better
And now he only did this to have just enough
energy and life force to
visit the public library and
read heart warming poems
you ever just sit or lay on your bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder if you’ve ever eaten meat from an animal that was the offspring of another animal you’ve eaten? I’ve once read an article about the food industry’s secret glue that can paste together the meat belonging from many animals and makes it look like it’s from a single one thus you could eat beef thinking that it’s from a cow when in fact it’s from nine different cows of nine different ages and breeds a friend of mine declared herself vegan after she sliced a steak and found gray slimy puss oozing from it. The blade struck a cyst “I’m a vegan forever from now on!” she screamed And I said, “I’m a writer.” “What?” she said. “What’s that have to do with what I said?” “I’m a writer,” I repeated. “Meaning I have to…
This morning he sent his third part (third time) of poems that we will publish every Wednesday. I personally thank the author who has many followers who value his written work.
j re crivello founder of Masticadores (*)
life’ll smile father punched him lightly in the shoulder and said, "Hey, keep that chin up, buddy. Just know that a time will come when life'll smile at us." Sure, he'd been saying that since forever. That was the earliest and most common memory of him Grinning from ear to ear and saying that a day will come when life'll smile upon them But until that day they'll have to sit in the town square and play their cheap instruments for passersby to drop money in their box Keep that chin up… Oh, father. You can't play the violin holding your chin up And life won't smile if you keep playing it…
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.”
They had the poor girl lie
on the cold tile floor
and then they all pissed on her
and you could hear them tell her to open her
mouth wide and stick her tongue
out
It was one of the
poorest videos on the site
but the women watching it
recognized the girl
She went
to the same high school as them
back in the day
So
trashy porn is what she turned to
Not exceptionally unusual, but
one of the kids
running in the park before them was her child
Just eight or nine
"You know," said one of them. "Like it or not
it's just a matter
of time until our sons catch wind of
this and then..."
"Oh my..."
"Goodness!"
"The sins of the parents are visited upon
the children. It's not fair. Imagine
the life her poor kid's gonna
have."
"Yeah, our own kids might
very well be the bullies, we'll never know. Like I said,
it's a matter of time..."
"Well, goodness, what can we do
about it?"
"Flag the video?"
"You know it won't work..."
"Oh, I got an idea. What if... you know, what if
we all uploaded sexy vids of us. Um, not
necessarily as trashy as this one
but just pornographic enough. The boys
won't be able
to gang up and bully one if all their mothers
did it... Right? C'mon, let's do it
for that poor kid. Think about his future..."
The other mothers
looked at her
and they kept looking
mute
until one of them pulled out her
smartphone
Here it is.
THE MUSE'S BAD TOUCH
A collection of dark poems highlighting the toxic and deadly relationship between poet and muse.
DISCLAIMER: suitable only for a mature audience.
D' you like the cover? I designed it myself ∩(・ω・)∩
Check out the free sample poems (and maybe leave a review). Thanks!
I don't wanna say that the poems contained in this book are dark. It would sound pretentious right off the bat. But, yeah, between dark and light, you know already where they stand.
By Bogdan Dragos This morning too it jumped on his bed and cried and pounced on his face and licked his forehead Now he had a reason to wake up To feed the cat And he had a reason to take showers Because the cat didn’t like to lick a greasy face He had a […]
again
she grabs a stool
and places it into the corner
of the room,
climbs on it, assumes the lotus position
and closes her eyes
and covers her ears with headphones
She faces the corner
The voice that speaks into her
headphones starts a
countdown
Meanwhile
her father shakes his head as
he watches her
“You can’t be serious,” he says. “Are
you meditating again to ask God to make life
fair? Is that it? What happened?
Was your Uber late? Internet connection slow?
Heheh!”
She doesn’t hear him. The voice
in her headphones says, “And twist. Remember
to always twist. If you only stab
him it’s not enough. That’s just gonna do
a little damage that can be fixed with a quick visit
to the ER. You have to twist the blade. That’s
when the significant damage happens. Twist
as much as you can. Show no mercy.
Take advantage of
the fact that he will not expect this from you.”
three weeks
and the shards were still there
still scattered on the tiles
of the kitchen floor
that was a thick glass
meant for classy strong drinks
like whiskey
Yeah, now that he thought about it
it was whiskey she
ordered. But he filled
the glass with milk and said,
“You know what the doctor said, mother.
No more alcohol for you. Here, try
this instead.”
And he would strongly
prefer not to remember what followed
after
The shards were still
on the kitchen floor
and the gash still on the side of
his neck. Stitched now
but painful nonetheless
Daydreaming as a profession 