our very own patron saint By Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers by Masticadores

he was a doctor

Goddammit, they were looking at
a doctor
He came into the casino in a suit,
the same suit every day and night
dark gray
shiny with grease around the
elbows and lower back
smelly
patched up in places

he kinda forgot what it was like to be
sober

and lately he kinda forgot what
it was like to win at the slot machines

he forgot how to perform surgery
how to diagnose a patient

forgot what the company of a woman felt like

forgot what love was

he was a machine that consumed cheap
but strong alcohol
Rubbing alcohol filtered through bread
That stuff was 70% alcohol
his liver knew it

"Ah, pleaseeee, for the love of God, don't
make me work with this
stuff again," he would scream while
playing at the slot machine

and the bouncer would walk up to him
and say, "Hey…

View original post 210 more words

23 March 2022 6

Rotten Tongue by Bogdan Dragos

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ヾ(・ω・*)ノ

Chewers by Masticadores

A close up of a man sticking out his tongue and there are nails embedded in it — Image Source: Snappa

the big purple bird

with no eyes

and chipped beak

didn’t fly

It walked like a normal

person would. Almost like someone

was wearing it as a costume

but he knew

of course

that there was no one wearing the costume

was real

and it showed itself to him

on too many occasions. Every time

he was alone

and it was hard to not be

alone

when you drove all people away from

your life

The bird got closer and

closer and

began talking to him and telling him

how his rotten tongue was

cursed

and that he would drive away everyone

to whom he spoke

He couldn’t take it anymore

and ran out of

the house

and towards the car

Oh, but the purple bird was

there already

Inside

Waiting on the passenger’s side

he began to scream

They found him the next morning

collapsed…

View original post 135 more words

21 March 2022 9

“she speaks the language of blood” — POEM featured in Suburban Witchcraft Magazine Issue 1

featured magazine literary wiring poem poetry writer reading read published publishing publisher story book feature inspiration

Issue 1 of “Suburban Witchcraft Magazine” is now live!
((๑´ᗜ`) isn't the cover absolutely stunning? Wait till you see the rest of the artwork inside!)


And I have the honor to be featured in it with a poem titled "she speaks the language of blood".


Give it a read HERE!




( ✪ワ✪)ノ Thank you very much!

14 March 2022 20

To Become a Man by Bogdan Dragos

Don't forget to check out and follow MasticadoresIndia to find more writings to enjoy! Thanks!  ´･ᴗ･ `

Chewers by Masticadores

The painting of a young woman holding a standing toddler boy in front of her — Image Source: Snappa

the good thing about being young

is that you don’t take

as much damage from falling

ten is a fantastic age

for falling

and for getting into

fights

with other kids

It usually all ends with

a handshake and a

tightened friendship

Unless adults get in the way. It all goes

down when adults get in the way.

Childhood itself goes to

hell when adults get in the way

He feels the

scar on the back of his head

aching every time he thinks of this

of the day father had him

fight another ten year old

He didn’t want to

so father pushed him from the back

and called him a pussy

And then father called him

a pathetic piece of crap after he lost

the fight

Father was a gambler. He bet the other kid’s

father that he’ll win the fight

But he lost miserably…

View original post 258 more words

14 March 2022 28

fără rimă

Poem written in my original language (Romanian). 
TRANSLATION: 

"Um... it doesn't rhyme,"
she said

I looked at her.
"You kidding?"

And then she shook her head.
"No, look, this poem
really has no rhymes
at all
You sure it's the right file?"

"Let me see."

She handed me her phone
and I looked at the text
on the screen, smirked, turned off
the phone and kissed her

"You are truly the cutest," I said. "But,
you see, not all poems
must have rhymes."

"Sure they do. Then why d' you write
them? And why should the
world bother to read them?"

"Good question. Maybe I'll find
out one day..."

12 March 2022 24

Pour the Whiskey Over My Heart and Set It On Fire by Bogdan Dragos

Gnome Appreciation Society

What Da Cover Says: Horror Sleaze Trash proudly presents the poems of Bogdan Dragos.

What I Says: I have followed Dragos on WordPress for many years now and he has entertained me all that time with some bloody good poems, you are guaranteed to get something dark and fucked-up that will give ya a chuckle….unless it’s just me giggling.

Horror Sleaze Trash presents this mighty fine collection from Dragos, it contains some of his most twisted material, I love how again and again he is able to surprise me with how the poem ends. In my opinion the tone of a poetry collection is always set by the first one, it has to be strong and it needs to get some kind of rise from you or you ain’t gonna enjoy what’s next, Dragos starts us off with “some things can never be put back together” a brilliant start, messed…

View original post 72 more words

11 March 2022 12

empaths

these days a lot of
people call
themselves
empaths

They claim to be able
to feel what
other people
are feeling
and suffer with them

"I cheated on my boyfriend
with his brother," some
girl said,
“and being the empath
that I am
I started crying along
with him when he
found out. It's hard
being such
an empath."

And there was
the guy
who got into a bar
brawl and
knocked another guy's
teeth out
and held a hand to his
own mouth and made
pain noises

I guess he
was an empath too

If you have a
social media account
and don't describe yourself
as an empath
people will think you're some
kind of monster,
a psychopath, they'll compare
you with Hitler

Yeah, it's a good
reason not
to use social media

If you actually
needed another

INSTAGRAM

My Poetry Collection

11 March 2022 102

A Cracked Shell by Bogdan Dragos

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ヾ(o✪‿✪o)ｼ

Chewers by Masticadores

A slug sitting on a small rock — Image Source: Snappa

“Lack of love,” she once told him, “can turn

a man into a cracked shell. Turn

his steps into rotten

butterfly wings falling. Turn his

breath into ether. His heart into a sick slug

struggling to escape a haunted bog.”

Sure, sure

but then again his parents told him

long ago when he was a child

that if he kept making ugly faces

he’ll remain like that forever

Well, now his parents weren’t here

and she wasn’t here

He was all alone

with his cat who gently licked at its genitals

besides him on the other pillow

Other than the cat’s saliva

breaking apart in contact with its fur

and skin

there was no sound in the room

it was all so peaceful

There was a gentle drizzle outside

just enough to keep people

and noisy children off the streets

It was perfect

Had she been here

View original post 146 more words

7 March 2022 10

dirty eyes By Bogdan Dragos

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Gobblers by Masticadores

the woman with the dirty eyes, they called her as she always beheld people like they were but dust in her eyes Her face would make that expression of pure disgust one feels while passing a homeless drunk in the streets. Fallen and stained with piss and feces and blood People weren't worthy to be held in her eyes but the people were everywhere she looked So she looked less into the world and more into her papers where she drew the few things she saw Every human being was drawn with hair covering their eyes and every animal with human eyes, clean eyes she'd been drawing all her life and now more than ever before She had a new dog now. One so meek and so obedient that it allowed her to stretch open its eyes and lick them with her tongue "There is much inspiration to be tasted…

View original post 67 more words

2 March 2022 2

You Laid Eggs Under my Eyelids? by Bogdan Dragos

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Chewers by Masticadores

The close up of a housefly sitting on a tiled surface — Image Source: Snappa

the pains in his lower back

were killing him

“Fuck,” he said, “that’s what I get for

not investing into

a decent chair.” He reached into

his pack and took

out another cigarette. “But I gotta smoke

to stay alive.

What a shitty life.”

He typed for another 36 minutes

and then

his friend, the fly, came to rest on his

knuckles. He blew smoke

on it. Laughed

The fly had gotten inside a while

ago. It was a big one, very

curious, ever exploring. And now trapped

He never opened the damned windows

or the door

Sat there in his smoke

and rancid smells. Said they helped with

inspiration for writing. Said

no good writing ever came out

of a healthy mind

He leaned back in his broken chair

watched the fly circle around

the naked light bulb in the ceiling

shook his fist at it…

View original post 247 more words

28 February 2022 9

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