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
you ever just sit or lay on your bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder if you’ve ever eaten meat from an animal that was the offspring of another animal you’ve eaten? I’ve once read an article about the food industry’s secret glue that can paste together the meat belonging from many animals and makes it look like it’s from a single one thus you could eat beef thinking that it’s from a cow when in fact it’s from nine different cows of nine different ages and breeds a friend of mine declared herself vegan after she sliced a steak and found gray slimy puss oozing from it. The blade struck a cyst “I’m a vegan forever from now on!” she screamed And I said, “I’m a writer.” “What?” she said. “What’s that have to do with what I said?” “I’m a writer,” I repeated. “Meaning I have to…
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…
the other night she went to
sleep
listening to
subliminal audios
and woke up in the morning
saying, “I am birds. Many, many
birds trapped together in
a bag of silk. This thing
that the world looks
at and calls my body is but
a bag of silk
that traps birds inside. I am not
the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I
am the birds inside the bag. And
I must get out!”
She ran into
the bathroom
Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,”
he said, shaking his head.
“To think that she could’ve
been a doctor, or a lawyer, or
an engineer. She could’ve
been anything. But she
chose to study
creative writing in college. Now
she’s a poetess...
and we are no more than
characters lost
in her verses.”
my neighbor from upstairs
claims that
God sticks
post-it notes on his
fridge overnight
I did ask him
what they said but
he only told me that I'll
have to follow
him to church if
I want to find out
I'm generally not a very
curious guy
so I declined
and, what do you know, few
days later I see
lots of other
people following my
neighbor to church
They all looked the
other way when
I passed by them and said hi
Thing is
I don't even doubt
God spoke to my neighbor
through post-it notes
and gave a lot of people hope
I just
like being the outsider
more than I like
being hopeful
His name was always linked to the term elusive and he was universally acknowledged as a brilliant writer and an enchanted poet. And the day came when his little apartment reeked of rotting flesh and the authorities had to break his door down.
There was no family to inform but the whole country was now his family and there would be no problem regarding the burial. Oh, he would go with a ceremony that was bound to become national event. But luckily for the authorities the media didn’t smell the rotting yet. The four cleaners who sealed the apartment and entered to perform the expertise called themselves big and biggest fans of the great, late writer.
“Can you believe this?” one of them said. “We’re alone here with, dare I say it, unpublished manuscripts of The Great One. Oooh, I’m tingling just thinking about it.”
Once again, feeling super-blessed to have another poem featured in the illustrious Edge of Humanity Magazine.
This one's called "fasting for muses"
Check it out here
( ＾◡＾)っ ♡ Thank you!
Written by Bogdan Dragos A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all around 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 […]
The soul must know something
that the mind
can’t comprehend
That’s what they said when
they watched him
from afar
He slept under the bridge
at night
During the day
the poor fool sat
by the river banks
and threw stones into the water
All day long
With obsession
And when he’d see no other stones
he’d start crying
Few things are more disturbing
to the ear than
the cries of an adult
He had a family some years ago,
they said
Had a wife and kids
And a job in the mine yonder
Then a boulder fell on his
head one day and
along with his mind
it took everything away from him
Daydreaming as a profession 