I was just a kid when he left so I didn’t recognize him
but some of the older guys were quick to offer him a drink
“Who’s he?” I asked
and the only answer I got was “Swineherd.”
They called him the swineherd
He was an okay fellow
knew a few bar tricks and showed us all his glass eye and the hole it covered
shit looked like a butthole when he removed that thing
He spoke about how good it was to be back and the guys asked him if he’s gonna swineherd again and they all laughed together like it was the craziest inside joke ever
I went home drunk that night and it was the kind of drunk that doesn’t provide inspiration
So with nothing to write about I checked out some random news on my feed
One title caught my eye
FARMER ARRESTED AFTER BEING CAUGHT TRANSPORTING COCAINE LODGED INSIDE PIGS’ ANUSES
“They call it demon possession,” she said, her hands busy struggling to open a beer bottle that was already opened.
“Maybe you should stop drinking,” I said. “It really looks like you’ve had enough.”
but of course she doesn’t hear that. She only hears what she wants to
People talk to her but their words have to pass through the thinnest filter I’ve ever seen
her mind
So because she didn’t hear me, or rather her mind did not register my words and their meaning, she went on with her story and with trying to open an already opened beer bottle. “I think I was only… um, sixteen. On that night I shot my older brother in his sleep. Killed him dead. Stole his keys and took his car and went for… what d’ you call that?”
“A joy ride?” I said
“Hahahah! Yeah. A joy ride.”
Now she did hear me. Cuz I behaved according to her script
“I did not crash the car. Didn’t even scratch it! I never went through driver’s ed but still I drove better than my bro. I was made for driving. But then, you know, I just returned home and I told my mother everything that happened. With a smile on my pretty face. I mean, it was super pretty back then. You should’ve seen me. I have pics, but they’re still nothing like the real thing. You would’ve soooo wanted to fuck me back then, I guarantee.”
“I would’ve been fourteen back then,” I said. “Would you have left a boy two years your junior hit?”
But it was another thing her mind didn’t register
“It’s all I could think about. I don’t know, is it weird to say that… That a car ride, that joy ride had caused my sexual awakening? Perhaps the surge of adrenaline caused me to become immeasurably… um, horny. D’ you think it’s weird?”
“Nothing’s weird at this point,” I said, actually taking the beer bottle away from her hand
Immediately her hands went to her hair and grabbed at random and pulled playfully while she bit her lips. “Ah, a long story follows. Mother called the authorities and I was taken into this… uh, this place for troubled teens. Was too young to go to prison, haha. And the biggest issue here was… I mean, I was really disappointed. Not one, not a single one of the staff members wanted to… you know, to do it with me. Not the men, not the women. Not even the other teenagers. Can you believe this shit? All those stereotypes of mental asylum workers abusing their patients… Fake! All of them. Couldn’t even get a smile from them, let alone a fuck. And eventually they quenched this desire of mine. With meds. I don’t even know what they gave me, but in time, they numbed me for good. And now… I don’t even make the difference between penetration and wiping with toilet paper. Feels the same to me. What good is a body if it can’t make love?”
“It can tell stories,” I said
At this she smiled and leaned over and took the beer bottle from me and drank
I’m still not sure if my words were registered into her mind or not
Every time someone wronged her with something she’d be as quick to forgive as a child
It was nice working with her
Though she was also one of those people who were a bit too good for their own good
Hence she never got a raise in over five years
they just knew she wouldn’t mind. She’d just forgive and move on
It was exactly so
At the end of the shift she went back to her one room apartment and stared at the blank wall and smiled
Life was still so much better now than back then when the CPS found her locked in the dog cage and took her away from a mother and father that didn’t even care that much
“Forgiveness,” she says, “is what turns the human into a god. If you can do that then you can do anything.”
I think she’s right
that’s why I always leave a big tip at the coffee shop
One day I’ll muster up the courage to ask her to be my muse
I just know she’ll answer with, “Darling, I already am.”
nobody knew what it was because nobody could pry it off his hands to have a look
Eh, whatever
it was just a book
Other crazed men held on to dangerous objects like knives and screwdrivers and shards of glass wrapped in a cloth and a padlock in a sock ever ready to become a flail when swung right
But he just held on to that book with gray hard covers and like some evangelist went through the apartment buildings from door to door knocking and asking the residents if they’ve seen her
‘Who the hell was he talking about?’ they’d ask
and this question made him leave and go to the next door
One time some kid opened up and probably thought he was talking about his mother, for he answered, “She’s at work.”
And without another word the crazy fool just barged in, passing by the kid and went straight into the living room where he seated himself on the sofa and opened the book ready to talk to the kid about her
Only, the kid ran out and asked for help
Cops were called and they took him to the station
someone there figured that the guy simply couldn’t tell reality apart from fiction
“He’s talking about a character in that book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks she’s a real person.”
“Yet another nut case. And what the hell’s the story about? What’s it titled? Who wrote it?”
Not without great effort and a sound beating, they managed to take the book away and have a look at it
It wasn’t even a book. Only the cover was. He ripped it and glued it to a thick notebook that was fully written by hand
“What the hell you call this?” said one of the cops.
“A manuscript,” said another.
“A what?”
“Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you know what a writer is. Now, d’ you know what a pleonasm is?”
“Not the time for playin’ smartass, smartass. Just say what you mean already.”
“A prime example of pleonasm is labeling a writer as crazy.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon, just get on with the procedures. We gotta get this guy into a mental institution. He’s a writer, in case you still don’t get it.”
“Oh…”
They were 50% right
Should’ve added the word ‘unpublished’ before the word ‘writer’ and then the statement would’ve been complete and 100% true
“pleonasm” POEM by Bogdan Dragos he wouldn’t let go of that book nobody knew what it was because nobody could pry it off his hands to have a look Eh, whatever it was just a book Other crazed men held on to dangerous objects like knives and screwdrivers and shards of glass wrapped in a cloth and a padlock in a sock ever ready to become a flail when swung right But he just held on to that book with gray hard covers and like some evangelist went through the apartment buildings from door to door knocking and asking the residents if they’ve seen her ‘Who the hell was he talking about?’ they’d ask and this question made him leave and go to the next door One time some kid opened up and probably thought he was talking about his mother, for he answered, “She’s at work.” And without another word the crazy fool just barged in, passing by the kid and went straight into the living room where he seated himself on the sofa and opened the book ready to talk to the kid about her Only, the kid ran out and asked for help Cops were called and they took him to the station someone there figured that the guy simply couldn’t tell reality apart from fiction “He’s talking about a character in that book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks she’s a real person.” “Yet another nut case. And what the hell’s the story about? What’s it titled? Who wrote it?” Not without great effort and a sound beating, they managed to take the book away and have a look at it It wasn’t even a book. Only the cover was. He ripped it and glued it to a thick notebook that was fully written by hand “What the hell you call this?” said one of the cops. “A manuscript,” said another. “A what?” “Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you know what a writer is. Now, d’ you know what a pleonasm is?” “Not the time for playin’ smartass, smartass. Just say what you mean already.” “A prime example of pleonasm is labeling a writer as crazy.” “Huh?” “C’mon, just get on with the procedures. We gotta get this guy into a mental institution. He’s a writer, in case you still don’t get it.” “Oh…” They were 50% right Should’ve added the word ‘unpublished’ before the word ‘writer’ and then the statement would’ve been complete and 100% true
just a thin, colorless light filtered through the clouds
the sun just didn’t bother anymore
late autumn
It seemed nobody bothered too much
there were almost fifty people there
all gathered for the funeral
He lit a cigarette, not giving a damn what others might say or think, and dragged a long, lazy puff and said, “Still better than a wedding,” to no one in particular
A few did hear him but most didn’t
Weird thing to say at the funeral of one’s own child, but coming from him, it wasn’t that unheard of
“Just let him be,” said a few voices. “After all, he is… you know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re goddamn right. I’m a writer.”
one more scroll with the thumb on the screen reveals an ad with a message that reads YOUR DREAM COMING TRUE
He immediately skips it
but the mind dwells on it a bit longer
Dream come true?
People should stop associating the achievement of dreams with happiness
It’s rarely, if ever, the same thing
He repeats this to himself and feels like some philosopher or something as he lies in bed and takes his eyes from the phone screen to look across the room at the desk where his girlfriend plays some stupid video game on the PC
She’s got headphones on and the mic activated
She’s got it all
Spiky green hair, gothic makeup, piercings in ears, nose, lips, tongue, brow, navel, nipples, socks with cat paws at the feet, a six-pack of white Monster by her side
and of course attitude
“Aaah! I really, really hope your first child fucking dies!” she screams at the top of her lungs into the mic. Obviously addressing some player in her game. “Yeah! You heard me! I hope your child fucking dies and you bury it so I could go and dig it the fuck up. Yeah! I’d bring it home and shit down its sorry little throat and then inject my piss into its little dick hole with a syringe. And then I’d put a fucking iron rod through its anus and see it come out through the mouth and roast it like a fucking rotisserie chicken with a flame torch, and then film myself while I fucking eat it! I’d send you clips every day, fucker! Every fucking day! You hear me!?”
Yep, that attitude…
“Achieving your dreams does not necessarily bring happiness,” he says aloud from the bed but she doesn’t hear him
“It looks like… A flower dog,” he said, looking at it with ever growing fascination
He didn’t know what a ‘flower dog’ was but those were the first words that came to mind as he beheld the thing
Others would’ve had different words for it
like roadkill
He hit it with the car this night and stopped to pick it up and took it home
talking to it along the way
He didn’t know what kind of animal it was
only that it was dead now
“I never was smart when it came to labeling things,” he said to the flower dog now lying on a square coffee table that was turned upside down to better contain all its scattered bits and pieces
There was a surprisingly small amount of blood though
and a surprisingly large amount of bone shards
“You are very weird, my little friend. And I do not know how you came to be. I don’t know a lot of things. But I will tell you that if God ever created a flower dog you’re it, hehe.”
in the darkness the flower dog looked up at him with bloodshot eyes that spoke of understanding and even compassion
after all it was in the presence of someone equally hard to understand by the world
I mean, the guy was way too rich and privileged to have missing teeth
yet his mouth opened like some rusty dungeon gate
Every time they tried to fix his teeth he’d break them again
intentionally
with the claw of a hammer or with a rock when a hammer wasn’t available
What a lad
He kept all those rotten vegetables and fruits and meats under his bed and in drawers just to feel the smell of death about him
Death was everything to him
His god
His world
So it’s small wonder that he eventually met his idol or rather gave himself to it
at age 22 he weighed no more than a 12 year old but had the wisdom of a 62 year old who’d made it in life
and that’s apparently where the problem lies
when the mind knows too much about too many things it grows interested only in the supreme thing
Death
and eventually the body follows
“Dying in a dream is always followed by waking up,” he used to say. “For the mind doesn’t know what to render in the dream afterwards and crashes. The dream ends. Whether it’s a dream or a nightmare. Death is the way out.”
He got out, alright.
First out the window and then
as his body hit the pavement below
out of this dream
In this moment he is all over the place
in my writings first and in the reader’s mind second
But it should be fine since I did not share his name, right?
Daydreaming as a profession 