wolf head hands
Thick socks
that my grandma made for me
from wool
I see them laying on
the rug at
the foot of the bed
and they look like the heads
of wolves in
waiting
waiting in the snow
behind bushes
dry with frost
I grab them
and slide them down my fists
like gloves
I have wolf heads for
hands
And I start punching things
and grabbing them and shredding
them with the fangs
the blanket
the tablecloth
the pillow
my knees
yet in my fantasy I can't decide what
happens when the
wolf head hands
meet each other
Do they fight
and bite each other?
Or do they cuddle and lick?
Luckily I don't have to
find the answer. My
grandma opens the door and yells
for me to come
out already. It's time for school.
Yes, despite anything I thought back
then, I do miss those times
Oh, how I do
miss them
***
INSTAGRAM:
https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
Untitled
Your leather boots
Hung tarnished over
The Cumberland plateau
And your Southern drawl
Was swaying like a ghost on
The Autumn breeze
You said to me, darlin'--
And I forget the rest.
Because my flesh erupted
Touched by your fire
And I was a pressed rose
Between the flaps of
Your tobacco pouch
I was swaddled deep
Within the musk of your soul
Burrowing with delight
And ingested, permanently.
Rulebending
I have a talent for less
and an aura pristine
(but for holes, and stains
among cadres of things)
I ache to feel better
am a puzzle-less clue
with a talent for less
and thoughts to chew.
i think of you every time my phone buzzes
i quickly, shamefully hope for an apology
some kind of reason i'm worth your time
proof you still think about me all the time
i decided it isn't fair to hold any of this over you
i'm hurt, maybe i did something wrong
i feel tragic and worthless and melodramatic
all the things i promised myself i would never feel
when i promised myself i would never be in love
i've fogged up my window with all this blame
and through the haze i can't see it in myself to hate you
i'll go on hating myself and find comfort in familiarity
songs with a beat like a car alarm.
What's the earliest you can remember?
Do you smell the sour morning breath of your classmates back in elementary school as they shared an elaborate scheme to send a left-handed letter to their crush?
Do you remember whole films in your head as you fall asleep, twisting and turning on a pillow whose corner you rubbed against your eyelid back when you were old enough to acknowledge that fairies existed?
How about that squeaky toy wagon, screeching away with red wheels and blue edges, your Sesame Street cubes with bite marks resting in a pyramid on top?
Do you remember that Jacob's ladder, how it fascinated you as the colored blocks went form left to right, held up by lace?
I remember it all.
I remember the soccer team's screams as they yanked each other's shirts; I would hang upside down from a red-and-blue metal jungle gym where I'd eat my ham-and-cheese sandwiches, my sweet juice boxes. Berries were my favorite flavors. Mango the least favorite. It tasted bitter more often than not.
I remember every memory, nearly every word, or the flavor they held on the tip of my tongue.
I remember the laughter, the tears, every single thought held tight in the back of my throat;
every nightmare, every dream, every piece of clothing that got torn as I fell while running, on a skateboard, or the 16 miles I rode on a bicycle as the sharp pedal got caught up on my jeans.
Remembering is a blessing. Remembering is a curse.
Because you remember every loving, affectionate moment that made you feel
like you could soar high up in the air, untouched by the lightning in any storm,
and every single moment of doubt and slash of hurt, every cruel concept you've said,
every single goddamn frustration that roams freely across the streets of your head.
You remember every nook and cranny of every childhood homes, every apartment,
every step from every staircase you roamed.
And when people tell you, "Nah, that didn't happen, you're remembering it wrong,"
you feel the growing, aching frustration because
they don't get your brain the way that you do.
They do not get how you remember those exact moments:
the phone call you never picked up,
the hug from every person you've ever loved,
the way their skin smelled and the way their eyes glowed.
You remember everything.
So how dare they
say you
do
not?
indifference
the universe
is indifferent.
it's open eye
gazes upon suffering
and does not look away.
the universe
is an impartial observer,
and each action
we make
in its name
is mere amusement,
a joke told
in a bar
to be laughed at
and then forgotten.
humanity
has learned
to take indifference
personally.
after all,
exclusion is
the most common form
of cruelty.
we can be punched
and get back up.
we can be celebrated
and torn back down.
but how can we stand back up
if our enemy merely
walks away?
there is an injustice
in indifference
a sense of loss
in every battle
left unfought.
by remaining
impartial,
the universe
has unwittingly chosen its side.
by seeking apathy
it has become
hostile.
Why Prose?
It's a mixed bag for me.
Sometimes I like to lurk. Seeing true art graffiti-ed on the walls of the web is gratifying in a way words can't quite explain. The internet is rife with garbage work pretending to be anything but. Prose is a welcome reprieve.
Sometimes it's to dump the things out of my head when I get that insatiable itch to put words on page. There's something special about knowing I can post anything in the world, whether it be snippets of a novel or the incoherent ramblings of an insomniac at two in the morning.
Sometimes it's to wander through Portals and into treasure troves of talent. Poetry beyond reckoning embraces my senses. The genius on this platform is more abundant than June cockroaches on Bourbon Street.
And Finally-- for the challenges.
The indulgence.
The special treat to greet at the end of a long day of living among un-writerly folk.
I am continually delighted by the creativity to be found there-- in the Challenges section.
In short, Prose. is the choose your own adventure I didn't know I needed.
inconsequential
it's a blissful universe,
one in which i don't exist
my intangibility gives me strength.
i find solace in the nihilism,
freedom in living fast,
i depend so heavily upon
my mental illness
to kill me before i turn thirty-three.
it's a mutual destruction,
my mind and i,
in a quest to see
which one of us
will die first.
an epic battle of the ages,
fought with sticks and stones,
reverted to a primitive age
of childhood insults.
here i can be a child,
where rebellion means
drawing on the walls
and making faces at the mirror,
or throwing a baseball
through an upstairs window
and dancing barefoot
on the shattered glass
and mommy
won't be mad
because she'll be too worried
about my bleeding feet
and the stains on the carpet
to care
about my mistake.
she'll drive me to the emergency room
and they'll tell her
i'm okay,
because little kids
don't get locked up
for doing stupid shit.
as a child my misdeeds
are inconsequential,
a speck of dust in the maladies of youth.
i can lose myself in the delusion
and my parents will be assured
that it's just
my creativity
coming out to play.
it is a blissful universe,
one where i don't exist.
yet eventually,
i was forced
to grow up
and fill the role
of existence
that i'd been trying so hard
to avoid.
Therapy
She said it
as if it were
easy,
"Just hold
that happy thought,
Peter."
As if
my thoughts
were tangible.
I could not grasp
my happiness
in the palm of my hand,
could not twist it
between my fingers.
My thoughts
were droplets of rain,
sometimes a fine mist
that clung
to the edges
of my brain,
sometimes a
downpour
that an umbrella
could not stop.
She told me
to hold on
to happiness,
but I cannot grip the rain,
cannot control
its coming and going.
All it does
is soak through
the soles of my shoes
and collect
in my feet
until walking
becomes a chore
and my teeth
chatter
with nonsensical words.
The rain stays
in all the wrong ways.
She told me
to hold on
to this little shred
of happiness,
but I've already forgotten
what it was
I was trying
to hold onto.
Thus is the way of the storm,
weighing us down with water
until we can no longer feel
the individual drops.
Strippers and Trash Cans
Please don't send me
Flowers.
Send me memories
That feel like
the look of steel trash cans
Beneath florescent lights,
with that little streak
Of shine.
Always moving
towards you Like
The eyes of some
Fuckin haunted painting.
Or the notion
Of strippers
Beneath spotlights aimed
By untrained hands,
Just catching
Shadows
Of what you don't know
You missed.
Because the focus
Is shit.
Delayed Like appreciation
Often is.
And I always seem to miss
The things I almost saw.
Maybe that's life.
You only ever
Comprehend the ass
Jiggling
Towards the curtain
As dreams unrealized
Walk away,
Finished and empty
To the sound of applause.
Like the best tits
You never saw
And wish you remembered
But don't ,
But still brag about
Because no one
will ever know
The difference.
Like these
Stainless memories
Framed by charcoal regrets.
So please
Don't send me flowers.
Send me a trash can
To hold the remains.
The half wilted moments
Between inspiration
And oblivion.
I think they call it life
Or some shit.