Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
well it’s been about four days of fasting Four days of eating nothing but smoke from his cigarettes so it was difficult to tell whether the woman who sat in his bathtub and smoked some of his cigarettes and watched him writing on his desk was real or not “Of course I’m real, you dumbass!” […]
fasting for muses by Bogdan Dragos
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they didn’t even know
who the kid watching TV in the
other room was
but maybe that was
not their number one problem
“You goddamn bitch,” he said. “Tell me!
Tell me you didn’t
steal any from me, so I can say
I don’t believe you. C’mon, tell me!”
“Fuck you,” she said. “You lost it.”
“I knew you’d find some
excuse, some lie. Cuz you’re one lying bitch,
that’s what you are.”
“Hey, what about the tenant?”
“Who?”
“The tenant, deepshit! From the other
room. You’d rather believe
I stole it, not him?”
“What the…? Bitch, that’s your son. He’s
like five. He don’t pay no rent.”
“What? We gotta kick ‘im out then!”
“Aha! So you did
take my shit! You’re so high you don’t
recognize your own son. Again!”
They were louder than
the TV
but it didn’t matter. This TV had one
channel…
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a thief had entered the house
and all
he stole
was the TV remote
Perhaps some prankster kid
because at times
the TV would act strange. So he’s probably
close and messing with them
there was only the two of them
home. The old man with
dementia and his
daughter, not a very young woman herself
unable to speak,
the old man
began to cry because he couldn’t
watch his favorite
cartoons on TV
and he cried and cried and kept crying
about it
It was too much
and, the daughter thought, it was
about time. About time she
left the past behind and
started her
own life. She was 39, childless,
no husband, no boyfriend, nothing.
Over the next few days
she arranged for the old man
to be placed into foster care. He was still
crying.
Sacrifices had to be made. She was wiping her
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The building had 60 stories and he was 60 years old Still cleaning it from bottom to top for the past 35 years one thing remained unchanged as time passed the coldness Every surface he’d ever touch would be as cold as the glass of a window in the winter And the people who worked in the building were pale and cold as vampires He forgot how it was to be saluted or how it was to salute and get a reply No one talked to the janitor No one knew his name No one cared There were no souls in this isolated monolith that stood in the center overlooking other monoliths Hell is cold and monotonous and plays constant factory noises or keyboard noises and exudes smoke Even the plants were made of plastic and their flowers and leaves had to be sprayed with alcohol and wiped with a rag Real plants wouldn’t accept such treatment They would punish you with their death and that should be enough But not for those pale vampires The only thing alive was him, the janitor who imagined jazz music playing in his mind as he scrubbed the tiles and one mushroom that grew behind one of the toilets in the women’s bathroom from a used pad He left it there for days It was his little secret, his little friend in this world of soulless beings It was life sprouting against impossible odds Life in hell It was something to look up to every day Something to kneel before and say hello to and sing jazz to and even pat gently with the finger He promised himself that the day that mushroom died he would retire So far it was still alive Still sprouting spores that he inhaled and tasted with his tongue after rubbing it gently with his finger Living beings stick together regardless of species Just like the dead do
“The angriest I ever got,” she said, “Was with an ex-boyfriend, of course. I just wanted him to die. But like, not casual wanting him to die. Really, really wishing with all my might that he’d drop dead. I felt I couldn’t go on living as long as I knew he was alive. I had to do something about it. I was literally about to explode. So, to prevent that, I got dressed and despite the rain and all I went straight to the nearest pet shop. Bought me a hamster. And with a red marker, I wrote my boyfriend’s name on its back. And then slammed that hamster against the wall 134 times. For the 134 hours we’d been together. I calmed down after that. But, you know, I don’t like talking about myself all that much. Tell me about yourself. Also, what should we get from the menu?…
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“You made me take drugs,” she reproached
him
But he didn’t hear her
over the pain in his lower belly
“You made me take drugs,” she repeated.
“Huh?”
“And for this I’ve decided to
replace you. With someone better, someone who
would never make me do something
I don’t feel right with.”
He shook his head and noticed
that he was in the kitchen
tied to a chair
And there was a horrible pain in his lower belly
and his chest and
most of his body
and he felt like vomiting
His woman was at the gas stove
pouring oil over a frying sausage
in a pan
The dog was at her feet
salivating
“This is what you get,” she said, “for making
me do drugs, darling.”
“What?” He was still with a foot
in the world of painful dreams
but he watched her take
the sausage…
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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
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They will never finish the building
It would stay in its skeletal form
forever
because the government is
corrupt
but then
they all are
so it wasn’t the grandest
tragedy of the world
It was a fun place for
the kids
A place where they pretended to be
monkeys and did parkour
and whatnot
A place where tight friendships
and love were to
be discovered
and kept hidden in the various
incomplete rooms
and under unfinished stairs
The unfinished building was the
wonderland of a truly magical childhood
And it was still unfinished by
the time childhood ended
It’s been twenty years
and her girlfriends kept asking
her why she wasn’t
dating or starting a family
She just shrugged. Said she didn’t
want to hurt any men
It was enough those twenty years
ago when she
told a boy that he had to
walk across the high…
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like it’s been painted a million
times, the room
seemed smaller
narrower
suffocating. The
window too small, the
door too sturdy,
ceiling too low
and the generator of
the illusion
stood across from her on the bed
He’s been around for a year
and six months
Result of her first
and surely last
non-aborted pregnancy
It was like all the rage and bitterness
of the previous three
remained in her womb as residue
and had seeped into this
fourth one
who would punish her for the rest of her
life
But of course this too
was just an illusion, it was only in her mind,
remnant of a failed
creative writing career…
Across from her on the bed
stood but a normal child
but gods, it was more than enough
for someone who wanted none
-BOGDAN DRAGOS
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour…
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Wasn’t the best house for
a five-year-old
It was just a small room above the
bar his mother worked in
and it was open until late at night
and he couldn’t sleep because
of the noise
He imagined savages going
at each other, fighting to the death,
and then laughing in celebration
of victory
and he wasn’t too far from the truth
His mother would come
into the room from time to time
to get something or
to leave something in her locker
She had no time for him
And lately she kept coming with
blood on her clothes
He imagined she must clean up after
all those savages, pick
their dead bodies up
and bury them
It was unfair. Her only reward was
a spit’s worth of flour
that she was too tired to cook
with. So
she just snorted it through her nose
and went…
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Daydreaming as a profession 