Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
every small hesitation takes a bite from your confidence, from your soul until you find yourself breathing in ashes of suicide notes Breathe deep and start writing the next one but keep the lighter close
4779 digital pages filled with ramblings about feelings thousands of grammar and spelling mistakes a broken heart consuming itself a final 'goodbye' that came out of a lover’s mouth long ago still echoing in the ears a stadium-load of cockroaches and rats partying in the house a mailbox chocking on unpaid bills her room a mass grave of empty bottles snowed with ash no income electricity about to be cut off and she’s still writing
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
I was walking home from work and it started to rain big, fat drops I had no umbrella I ran for a couple of blocks and decided this won't do I found shelter under the awning of some abandoned flower shop There were bushes and greenery and weeds all about it and in the bushes there was a homeless guy taking a crap We made eye contact He said hi "Hello," I said "Would you happen to have some paper in there?" he asked pointing at my backpack I use my backpack to carry my food He probably thought I was returning from school or something and would have some books or notebooks or something like that I maintained eye contact took off my backpack looked inside There was a Tupperware casserole in which I had fried chicken The only paper I had was an A4 copy of the contract that stated I got a raise to my salary I took it out and held it to him He grabbed it Smiled "My god, thank you so much. You're a good lad, really. Say, wouldn't you be interested in a job by some chance? Part-time." "Where?" I said "Why, at this here flower shop," he said. "I plan to reopen in a month's time. Got a new supplier an' all that. I'll make it worth it." I thought about it for the time it took him to wipe his ass with my contract "Nah," I said. "I've already got a job. Sorry." "Oh well, should you ever change your mind, come here and ask for Santa Flea, okay? That'll be me by the way." "All right," I said When I got home I asked my girlfriend if she was ready to go out "To celebrate my raise," I said "Oh damn," she said. "How much?" "Just a shitty sum," I said
in high school
he repeatedly told her
that he was saving
himself for marriage
and eventually
she left him alone
but after graduation
she approached him
yet again
and this time he told her
that he was focusing on
his career as a writer
they both had their dreams
and they kept dreaming and
fighting to accomplish them,
insisting and getting up
from every defeat
failing forward
as some would say
It took decades but
eventually both of their
dreams came true
they were married
and he still hadn’t struck a deal
with any publisher but
made a relatively okay
income self-publishing
he wrote for a very narrow niche
very trashy erotic fiction
and his lovely wife helped him
with inspiration and research
“C’mon,” he urged her,
“moan a bit harder,
cry some too.”
she did as she was told
as he went around her
with the camera
it was hard work but
at least the German Shepard
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He jumped off the building and the metallic wings carried him high towards the clouds where others like him swam in absolute bliss but then something hit his head and he woke up turned around in bed and realized there was blood trickling from his eyebrow The girl besides him was holding a stapler in her hands and her eyes were watching him with hate "What the fuck!?" he shouted "Keep it down," she said. "Ah, you've got some nerve to play victim here, boy." "What?" "Oh, I tell you what. I was talking to you and for a reply you turned your back to me and closed your eyes and fell asleep. Like, what the fuck? So I figured if you can't keep your eyelids away from your eyes I'll give you a hand. Ah, sometimes I think I'm just too good for you, boy." He put his head on the pillow and breathed heavily "Yeah," he said. "Me too."
"Relax," she told him. "I never miss." She found his vein from the first try and shot him And the stuff was so good that he died overdose She watched him from above Watched the tears in his eyes and the froth bubbling around his mouth "I told you my daughter was off limits, fucker. I told you. And I told you I never miss, didn't I?"
what would be the reason to have an open casket funeral? Why should the living see the dead? He addressed the questions to no one in particular but his dead wife answered from the picture on the wall "Don't you wanna see me, darling?" "Not like that, I don't," he said. "That's why I have your portrait. So I don't have to look at your dead body in the casket. But your mom wouldn't understand..." "Darling, I think you're the one who doesn't understand. And I think it's time we talk about your therapist." "What about my therapist?" "You tell me. You tell me why did she have to tell you that she's single now and looking to settle. I thought she was supposed to help you cope with the premature death of your wife, not tell you her problems." "Dear, please..." "And one more thing. I don't like the medicine she prescribed you. Have you even read the label? That shit's dangerous, you know?" He stormed out of the room and went straight to the morgue and told the morticians to seal his dead wife's lips with glue or something They looked at him like he was crazy "What is it?" he asked "Well, sir, to glue the dead's lips for the open casket ceremony is just... standard procedure. Else the mouth opens and it's not a pretty sight. Did you work with the dead or something?" He thought a bit "Yeah," he said. "Something... something like that."
he owned one pair of shoes
four pairs of socks
one pair of pants
a tank top
two t-shirts and
a sweatshirt
he’d lost the cap
in his last dice game.
“well, hell, doesn’t matter,
broke the spell,” he chanted,
“therefore
somehow, someway
luck is gonna come my way
and why not here, now, today?”
the dreams haven’t left
the dreams were still in him,
in his soul
ready to explode
47 manuscripts:
14 novels, 7 novellas,
and 26 short stories
he carried in his pack
along with his socks
his other t-shirt
a knife
six pens he stole
from the library
where he wrote
a candy bar
and an old dull razor
he wasn’t so young anymore
the beard and gray hairs
made him look much older
surely the hunger had
affected that as well
but it didn’t matter
he was going to make it
one day, some day
soon
somehow, someway
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rainy season damage one unlucky boxer in a very open marriage guilt is one heavy anvil the world is full of fetishists honestly, I had to look online for the meaning of the term broken toy scratch on the inside dark corners of the dating scene only empty wine bottles better than any show on TV sometimes you don’t have to lead the insane to happiness, but to follow it’s okay, his father’s a writer
Daydreaming as a profession 