New poem featured in the illustrious SPILLWORDS PRESS!
TITLE: The Lives and Dreams of Some of Us
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“The Lives and Dreams of Some of Us” – featured in SPILLWORDS
answering the call
he downs the second bottle
of wine
and then curses the
beer for not
tasting as good
the rectangular desk before
him looks round
now
and his chair grows wheels
all the insects in the
apartment
crawl under the
clock on the wall
and spin the hands
backwards
lots of things are happening
but the
story before him doesn’t
write itself
The paper is still pale
the pen
still frozen
The next word will never come
out
let alone the next line
He leans back
and the demon calls from
the other side of the window
and tells him
to hurry up
“That’s not how
writing works,” he whispers back
But he doesn’t
know how
it works anymore
So he just stands
and walks to
the window
opens it
and answers
the call
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Azi m-am apucat de scris
ENGLISH TRANSLATION: There were times when I got home threw my backpack in the corner took off my shoes my jacket walked into my room took off my pants, my shirt put on sweatpants, another shirt turned on the PC ate a bag of salty potato chips drank whatever I could wasted time I was happy in those times Today I write.
cat shaking the paw by Bogdan Dragos
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She could say it if she wanted to but the words would carry no weight behind them like a cat shaking the paw with you and not understanding the real meaning behind the gesture so was her every “I love you.” Enough to make an old boy cry but he preferred suicide Needless to say her response was “Meh.”
Shock by Bogdan Dragos
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the three of them stood by the
banks and watched
the water turn
red
So it’s not like in the movies. When
you see someone dying
you don’t burst into
uncontrollable fits of screaming
You stand very still
and watch
and can’t speak
can’t blink
can’t turn away
can’t run
can’t do anything really
Shock is not something that makes
you jump
It’s a cement that stuns you
there was still more and
more blood seeping
from the body impaled in
the jagged rocks. The river
turned red on all directions around it
Death was a scary thing
but not having a stepfather
who sent you to beg in the streets so he
can drink the profits
made up for it
When there was no more
blood to be
carried away by the water
they smiled
All three at once
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for…
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mother forbade feeding the poor thing
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By Bogdan Dragos
there was a dog outside and it kept barking for some reason Ah yes, it was chained and the chain was terribly short and the poor animal was hungry Mother wouldn’t bother feeding it No, mother wanted it to die because it had been father’s dog, inherited along with the house after father died Mother forbade feeding the poor thing Her child stood next to the window and listened to the poor thing barking outside It was better than listening to mother drinking and talking ugly words with her boyfriends He opened the window and the dog saw him immediately and barked at him He wanted to cry Tried talking to the creature but it wouldn’t listen. It kept barking “Mother would cut my hand off if she caught me stealing food for you.” But he was a smart kid He leaned over the window and thrust…
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Pisica din papuc
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The Watcher by Bogdan Dragos
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the bartender was displeased with him and the patrons didn't like him much either He was the sickly, slender man who came at opening time and sat at the table by the window, watching the people outside he sat there until closing time problem was, he occupied that seat for so many hours in a row with only one drink usually a cognac sometimes he would mix all sorts of pills in it and wait for them to dissolve some did others didn't Regardless, he sipped at his drink and watched the people outside and spoke to nobody and seemed never to be bothered by noise, like he was deaf and the days passed and the weeks went by and he'd show up without fail When they did talk about him they called him The Watcher and speculated about his mental illness However, when I went to the bar myself…
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Most Subjective Industry of All by Bogdan Dragos
“Some poets are lucky,” he said. “And
others simply aren’t.
Remember, as long as we talk
about the publishing
industry
it’s all about luck.
Like, yeah, go ahead and name
one, just one industry
that is more subjective, or just
as subjective as
the publishing industry. I bet
you can’t.”
“Um, fashion industry?” I said
“Fashion bullshit,” he said.
“You’re not even close. Had you any
knowledge you’d know
the fashion industry is actually
not subjective at all. You just
gotta look skinny as a patient
who went through their
36th appointment for chemotherapy and
you’re good. You’ve made it
in the industry. Beauty is not
even a requirement. You just gotta be
skinny as fuck
and with plain features. Kinda like a
hanger that people
hang clothes on. Nothing more.
A well dressed scarecrow
can make it in the fashion industry.”
He turned to the side
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Daydreaming as a profession 