a songless bird
that would be the nicest
name she’d been
called
the others,
far more common,
being
that little wench
your bastard kid
the little rat
useless piece of shit that came outta you
and others
She liked the term
songless bird
It was a title worthy of her in
all the good and the
bad ways
The songless bird stands
locked in her room
and knocks and waves in
the window
for she has no voice to sing
She gives silent cries to the
neighbors and
the passersby when the noises
from the other side of
her door
get too violent
or when it smells
of smoke
Which happens
every now
and then
She got very deep into spirituality at her mother’s sound advice
A lot of people, including her mother, got into spirituality as a means to calm the feeling of having no control over life whatsoever
But behold, there are those who go through spirituality and come out knowing that it none of it’s true Suddenly they know and understand we have one hundred percent control over our own destinies
Today she was one of those people
“It’s all a matter of how we manage our thoughts,” she said “How we organize our minds. You attract what you focus on most of the time. It’s that simple.”
The guys at the bar all nodded, each hoping to get some private lessons out of her
And one of them did
He took her to his place where he found out that she was on her period
he would start whistling Very random and very loud even at night in bed and stopping him was very much a gamble The caterpillar-like stitches on his wife’s arm were a testimony to that He’s never been the same since his head injury Poor fellow just had the terrible, terrible luck to walk underneath an overpass while some teenagers were throwing big rocks for fun Now he kept calling the emergency number and crying that his wife had gone missing when she’d be just in the other room or at work The neighbors filed noise complaints because of his nightly whistling and apparently he no longer knew how to use the toilet paper. He always smelled and it was worse when he climbed in bed besides his wife It was hell and hell broke people and tonight again he started whistling and woke her up and as…
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…
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a profession.
father wasn’t very happy
when he came home
in the night
his little girl,
playing video games
and enjoying snacks
and having an occasional sip from
mother’s wine and cider on
the couch in the living room
at 01:27 AM,
could tell
Father was very sad
even though he came home
with
money and a car full of stuff
He shied away from
mother’s kiss and hug
“What the fuck’s with you?”
mother asked,
seeing him like that. “You got
caught or somethin’?”
Father looked down
at his shoes. “I’d rather get caught...”
“What?” said mother
“I said… Ah, forget it. I can’t
do this shit anymore. This
is no way
to live life!” He reached into all
the pockets of his pants
and coat and fished out money,
very crumpled bills, and threw them
to the floor. “Look at this.
Look at it and think. In six days
it’s Christmas! And the children from the
foster home I’ve burglarized
are all going to find out they’ve been
on Santa’s naughty list.
Holy shit, I feel like… shit right now…”
“Huh? Is that it? Guilt?
Really? You feel
guilty now? What’s this, a sign
of getting old?”
“If not
then it should be,” he said. “The
two of us grew up in
a foster home just like that
one, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” she said, “and we hated
every second of it. So what? We
didn’t get presents
for Christmas. We were
lucky if we got more food and
an extra hour of TV, dammit. Kids today
are too privileged. Fuck ‘em
an’ let’s count this cash.” She
went on her knees
and started collecting
the crumpled bills.
He stepped
away from her. “I need
a break from this.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “What you
need, darling, is to first
of all stop being
a pussy, you’re embarrassing yourself
in front of your daughter, and
second you need a
strong drink and a good fuck. I can
take care of the last two, but
the first one is
up to you alone, okay? Oh, by the way,
did you also steal a new
tablet? I broke another one
today.”
“And a phone charger
for me,” said
their daughter from the couch.
“I didn’t break it. Just can’t
find it anywhere.”
He sighed
and took off his shoes
and went into the bathroom to
take a shower,
unable to get those poor children
off his mind. He hated
himself
“Shit,” he said.
From the living room
his wife and
daughter started blasting really
loud music with
over the top, obnoxious
and dirty lyrics
“This is my life now,” he
whispered against
the water that flowed down from
the top of his head. I was better off
in the foster home. Sometimes it’s
better to be hurt by
others and struggle to stay alive
than to
know the only way you can
stay alive is by hurting others.
It’s times
like these that make me
think about
what that nun said to me
in the foster home when I learned
to write. You’ve a knack for it,
she said. I see a great
future for you as
a writer. Believe in yourself
and keep at it.
Shit… if I kept at it… I’d probably
write a story about a
sad burglar now
instead of living it…
Daydreaming as a profession 