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

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

the ashtray was looking more

and more

like a sick hedgehog

and her yellowed fingers

added one more quill to it

she sat back in her chair

work wasn't in the best of stages lately and

her office looked like a junkie's

trailer. You could

scrape the nicotine

off the walls. In fact, she

would get nicotine under her nails if she

just scratched her skin

anywhere

But otherwise she was

a beauty

and that was a problem. Beautiful

women have the worst

luck in marriages

The husband left and the two girls went

with him

They were sick and tired of her

habit to consume more cigarette smoke than

oxygen

And drinking was also a problem

though not nearly

as big

The worst drinking has ever done to her

was to make her lose

the driving license which she never

bothered to take back

The real problem was,

as always,

a lack of money. If the damn phone didn't

ring soon

she would have to kill someone

for a pack of cigarettes

Assuming she could still

kill

someone with her body rotting from the

inside. She was fine with

breast cancer

but now lung cancer joined too

and it was by far nastier

Still

that was all right

It doesn't take a healthy body to pull

a trigger

And speaking of triggers

She opened a drawer in her desk

took out the gun

studied it

Not loaded

She browsed through the drawer

Only one bullet left. One single bullet.

These things cost money

too

Damn it

But it's like they said back in

the mercenary camp

The last bullet is always preserved to be

used on the self

She loaded the bullet into the

gun

A life lived well is one

lived without regrets and without

ever asking for mercy

or feeling sorry for yourself

At 39

she had that. There was nothing

else to be taken

away from it

She put the gun to her

temple

Smiled

"Except for a final smoke."

***

https://bogdandragos.com/2021/02/08/the-female-assassin/

he sits alone in the

darkness

on a wooden chair

The walls surrounding him

have no

mirrors and

the windows are covered

by the thickest blinds

He doesn’t want to see his

old age

and the decay that already

started consuming

his body

In his mind he’s still

young, still

in his early twenties

still dreaming

He’s listening to music

He’s playing the music

and it exhausts him

The music comes from

within

An instrument with strings

His growling guts

He lubricates them with more

beer

***

WITH AUDIO:

https://bogdandragos.com/2021/01/25/an-old-instrument-with-rusty-strings/

(Edit #2)

What you believe...

More then you’d show...

Were they deceived?...

Fleeced by sly crows...

On that last leg...

Shimmering like gold...

Journey by Sea...

Back in your home...

Strike up a deal

With the Candy man...

You will go far...

You will go far...

Strike up a deal

With the Candy man...

Fresh appetites on

The rise...

Mad Men on screens...

Paid to paint sky...

Well pampered fiends...

Train pencilled eye

When to look where...

Who gets there first...

Be it by train,

Or festooned hearse...

Strike up a deal

With the Candy man...

You will go far...

You will go far...

Strike up a deal

With the Candy man...

Fresh appetites on

The rise...

Zone of Death clause...

Stalled by success...

If you break free,

Count yourself blessed...

Mugged and shot down...

Dusted for prints...

What Zoo allows

Caused throngs to wince...

Strike up a deal

With the Candy man...

You will go far...

You will go far...

Strike up a deal

With the Candy man...

Fresh appetites on

The rise...

©

10/10/20

Bunny Villaire

Sometimes I ask myself,

What did you do to deserve this life in Hell?

Sometimes I ask myself,

Why do you do the things that I do?

Can't you just be normal?

Or is that too much to ask?

And then myself fights back.

I'm sorry that I'm broken.

I'm sorry that I'm torn.

I'm sorry I'm not perfect.

Maybe I should've never been born?

Would you be satisfied then?

If I was never alive, would it reduce your stress x10?

Sometimes I ask myself,

Who are you?

And myself replies,

I don't know, that person's gone too.

it's a bit cold

I'm sitting by the margin of the river

Fishing

A bit upset

There were too many fish who escaped

my nets

I sigh

throw 'em again

wait

I catch one

pull it out and stomp on its golden head

rip it apart from the body

and drink its blood

...

Yeah, bullshit

I'm sitting in the office

night shift

supervising casinos through

CCTV cameras

it's 05:53

and I'm ignoring work to write poems

like this one

and something always comes up

and makes me forget my ideas

The phone rings

Some customer causes trouble in some casino

Some other customer is suspected of cheating

A bouncer falls asleep on his

chair due to lack of activity

The game attendant flirts with a customer

There's a bill fallen on the floor and I've to

determine its owner

A bunch of idiots are being too loud

Some other idiot keeps demanding alcohol

but his bets ain't worth shit

and so on

and on

and on

And the goldfish escape through my fingers

and the eyes of my nets are too wide

and that just sucks, man

It really does

But I pick myself up

and tell myself what I always tell myself

A writer writes

A writer writes

A writer writes

Just like a fisherman fishes

And you don't stop because the catch

is rickety

You continue because of it

I constantly grieve for you

Oh, how I used to hate you

I once saw in the reflection

Someone looking to be adored--

Eyes polluted with sorrow, a gaze

So bleak that a mannequin looked more

real

How could you still feel?

Why did you still try?

Where the answer lies

Resides behind that doleful look

That opaque oasis that we call will

And you willed your way there--

To the state you're at now

I used to hate you, but

Now, I think I love you.

I wrote a poem about schizophrenic pottery

and there was a long silence

after I spoke to my psychiatrist

about it

On the day I turned twenty

I promised myself I wouldn't see thirty

Someone in rehab asked me

why thirty, and not your next birthday?

I stand up in front of you

questioning my worth

and all I get

is a handshake and hospital bills

I write fiction in

the vein

of an apology

Sorry for the broken pottery

*I can't get this

out of my head

sorry in advance

if it doesn't make sense**

**It's broken and messy

"How odd," I thought as I listened to deep breaths before my eyes opened.

It was unusual for me to feel a little "interested" in the morning. I reached down there and flipped the fuck out! I jerked my hand away.

My heart pounded as I flew out of bed and ran to the bathroom mirror.

Oh bajeesus! Oh saint and salt peter I have a peter!

Like a sibling, there I was a man.

I put on some of my son's clothes left boxed in the garage, got into my car and took off to Denny's to chow down. After breakfast, I realized I had a doctor's appointment.

I called and cancelled the pap smear.

I went to the grocery store and I could lift all that shit!

Back to town I went to negotiate the car deal I've been meaning to make. I got a sweet deal! On the way out I stopped roadside, stepped out of sight and took me a piss!

I wadn't gonna waste the pleasures of this day. I spied on women.

Next stop the titty bar! After a few beers I saw a fight fixin' to happen. I wasn't scared or nothin'! I was just lookin' for a reason to jump in.

By five o'clock I looked kinda sexy just barely needing a shave.

I went out that night and went home with a "lady." Woohoo!

At home, I moved the refrigerator. The floor beneath was driving me crazy before.

Now it's time for a little football before bed.

Strange as it sounds (and I'm still gonna "nix" the pap smear), I hope I'm a lady tomorrow.

Your words form the wind

I hide behind my wide fan

Heart folded in half

The sword of your gaze

Begets another bookfold

My fragile fan slain

Now my tiny heart

Beats like a hummingbird's wings

As you turn away

Then I step forward

Heart curled corner to corner

Voice an oblique line

It has wings

It has flame

It will never

Give heed to claim

But for you

It will game

This origami heart

Your heel strikes the ground

My heart rotates a quarter

To avoid the spark

The dart of your grin

Flies true and lands where I wish

My last folds invert

Your chuckle, a lance

Inflates the empty box folds

I am paper yet

Your grace is a dance

Let me twirl alongside you

Float as a lantern

It has strings

It has shame

It will never

Taste of fame

But for you

It will game

This origami heart

#5/7/5 form poem