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 Daydreaming as a profession.
I saw him busy and focused beyond focus over a yellow legal pad that he held in his lap He squeezed the pen like struggling to strangle a snake and his tongue was poked and clasped tight in a corner of his small mouth for maximum concentration "Damn kid," I told him. "Now that's a flow state, if I ever seen one. What's your secret?" He made the briefest eye contact and said, "If I took the time to tell you, I'd lose it." That was the best answer I ever got. The kid was a genius. I was standing in the shadow of a giant right there in that cafe. I beheld a god But his mother wasn't very fond of me talking to her kid as I passed their table to go to the bathroom I tried to explain to her that I also write Kinda... Well that…
It is known
You can never hold on to
an adventurer
and she was one
And she was gone
and he stood by the window
and smelled the
guitar she left behind,
not knowing how to play it
A girl like her
travels around the world
like a sailor and
loves many boys and men
and they never forget her
The one mistake
they all share is
trying to lock her in their
world
It’s like trying to
capture the sun’s light in
a bag and take it
into your dark house
Women like her
are responsible for
men who call themselves
romantics and write love poems
and dream
He struck the cords
of the guitar
once. Looked out
the window. Warm, sunny day.
Streets busy with children
running fast, passing by
adults who walked slow
A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all about him and wood above But this was so far from hell Hell was a thing of the past now Now he had her by his side She was still sleeping in her rugged sleeping bag For the past few days they slept under the cabin to avoid being ambushed inside He knew she wouldn’t be by his side for long. The infection in her mouth was really getting out of control putting her one outrageous fever away from death This was the world today A warm wasteland full of predators and no medical help of any kind. Kill or be killed. Law of the jungle. And so on He liked to believe he adapted Too many didn’t His luck stood in not having that much of a fine life…
She was sucking on a red lollipop quite loudly and would constantly take it out of her mouth to stir her whiskey with it She wore round sunglasses a crimson bandanna her hair in thin dreads and all her shirts were sleeveless She took the lollipop out one more time and pointed it at him across the table “You want some?” she asked “Um, no thanks. I, uh, stay away from sweets.” She dipped the lollipop back into the glass and stirred a bit then put it back in her mouth “Good for you. I’m not too fond of these either. Just use ’em to help me break the smoking habit. It’s been working lately.” She picked up the glass and took a sip of the lollipop-flavored whiskey “Anyway, like I said, I brought you to my place to read your tarot cards.” She pulled the deck out from under…
so, you're writing poetry or, well, at least you pretend to and you pretend you're good at it and the people want more from you nice but how come none of what you write is uplifting stuff? if anything, you've got more depressing shit than uplifting stuff and you expect to get popular with that? get real! you've got to inspire people you've got to write motivational stuff, uplifting, hope giving stuff, upbeat verses brimming with intelligence and radiating brilliance your words are like confetti on a page why are they so scattered? what poem is this? why does it start with a lowercase letter? are you dumb? Don't you know how to write? you're unbelievable, man, unbelievable and don't even mention the nonexistence of rhymes, pfff, lame... this is not a goddamn poem, fool it's child's mockery and you should grow up and stop pretending you're doing this for…
Daydreaming as a profession 