there was
simply
no other way

some things just have
to be done
else you risk dying
from the urge alone

Urge can ****

and his urge was
like the need
to inhale after exhaling
deeply

Unstoppable

There was no reason tied
to it other than
the desire to see what
happens, how
it'll turn out

so he did it

that's why they don't see
him around
anymore

He is now the stuff
of legends

He'll forever be the silent kid
who brought a knife
to the playground
because he wanted
desperately to stab it
through the underside of
the plastic slide
while someone came down towards it

it didn't matter who

his eyes looked fresh out of
a ******* crying
session

I walked up to him
and asked what
was wrong

He showed me his phone and
what I saw were pictures of some
dismembered kitten,
head and legs and tail cut off

"The ****?" I said

He shook his head. "My girlfriend. She
thought I gave my cat
almost as much attention as I
gave her. She couldn't
have that."

"****, man. I'm so sorry."

"My mother gave me that kitten
before she
left for Italy…"

"Gods… you… You reported your girlfriend,
right?"

Just then his phone rang
and he was quick to pick up. It was
an alarm. He looked at
the screen and took a few big steps away
from me. "Sorry bro, you took too
much of my time. I gotta get home now."

"Wait," I said, "Aren't we going for
some drinks?"

He ran away from me
as fast as he could. "Sorry, I can't give
you that much of my time. My
girlfriend's waiting for me. Bye."

Well, I went drinking
by myself. Unfortunately it did not
get the images out
of my head

Wasted years

What do they look like?
Can you show in a picture?

He nodded to himself
as he thought
about it

Of course
who other than him to know
what wasted years look like

After 45 years spent inside
a box he was qualified to
judge. And it wasn’t
even prison. It was the office.
Accounting.

45 years

And today...
Today he was the 65-year-old
photographer
who raised the camera before
the mirror and snapped
a selfie
and said
“I am wasted years.”

“I was ten years old,” she said,
her head resting on
my shoulder. “And the flames
covered the **** sky. Though our
neighbor was actually
lucky. Lucky I
didn’t burn his house. I mean,
******* had it
coming. You don’t run over a girl’s
puppy and expect to
get out scratch free, you know?”

“I too had a neighbor
who ran over
my puppy with his tractor,” I said.
“I think I was also around
ten.”

“And what did you do
about it?” she asked

“Nothing,” I said

“What? But how?”

“Like I said, I was just some
insignificant kid from
the countryside. All I could
do was cry.”

“My God,” she said, “that’s so
******* lame. Where’s
that neighbor of
yours today?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he’s dead.
He was pretty old
when it all happened.”

“If that’s the case then
you have the duty to
go **** on his grave. At least.”

“Um… I wouldn’t know where
that is. And besides,
I learned to forgive.”

“That’s what the weak say. What
kind of man are you?”

“One who doesn’t hold grudges?”

She sighed. “We gotta spend
more time together.”

“And learn from one another?” I asked

She didn’t reply

so it's true
there is a world out there
in which the rich are
inferior to the poor

and there's a woman, more
beautiful than any, desired,
waited upon, a woman to
die for, a woman who only
comes to the dead and sometimes
to the poor and the miserable
and rarely, almost never to the rich,
to the well-being, to those with
full bellies and pockets and
no worry of the morrow

strange tastes she has

above all
she loves madness
the mad never have to search for
her. It is her who hunts them
and unless they grow sober
and sane she never leaves

she goes by many names
and no name at all
and a name this second and
another the next
But names don't matter
she only cares about making love
and you'd better not wash yourself
before getting in bed with her,
don't chase the stingy smell
of hot spirits from your breath
don't clean your teeth or the
***** stains from your shirt
or the sweat
If your stomach keeps turning
around empty, void and
if your guts could make a little
music while you're at it, it's
even better. She loves this type of music
And if you still wanna take a step further
have your body covered in wounds
and rashes and some broken
bones where possible, a swollen
eye, a bent nose, a chewed off ear,
enough scars, missing teeth, and
oh, boy, she's yours

"Name me, lover boy!"

I call her simply The Muse

What about you?

The philosophers are still trying,
still striving to answer to
the age
old
question: What is a poem?

Sure, they figured what's the
meaning of life and other
metaphysical truths but
poetry...

And what is not a poem?

a to-do list is a poem

the obituaries are poems

that curse word followed by
racial slurs scribbled on the
inside of the cabin, probably
with ****, is poetry

blood spilled writes poetry
just as well as does the one
contained

a well landed punch is not weaker
poetry than one missing

to chew sand is to make poetry
and it's not lesser than chewing
bread

to rip a piece of paper and
place it under your fingernail
and hold the finger above
a burning candle is to make
poetry

to fall from a tree and lay down
while being chewed by wild dogs
is to be poetic

to let death win without a fight
or to greet it with open arms
or to bully it into taking you
is to create a poem

and to remain silent when the world is
loud... Ah, not many can create such
poems but those who do make them
exceptional

you're an alright poet if you can tie a
knot and you become a good poet
if you can turn the knot
into a noose and you grow to be
a great poet if you can put the noose
around your throat

luckily the world has some
great poets

but the world also has godlike poets

I wonder what they do

he watches the rain like
it's alive
but he feels less alive himself
behind him
the house turns dark
its last light going off

don't turn back
don't look back
keep going ahead

and maybe another house
and another wife
will open up before you

or maybe there'll be another
war coming
and the nation will need
your service
again

this time the fear shall be
less intense
The first time
someone points
a gun at you
you're terrified
the second time's the same
third
forth
and so on
but eventually there comes
a time when you
run out of people
to point guns at you

fifth

twelfth

forty-third

and none of them make you
feel like her eyes
watching from the window
behind the curtains
and no pulling of the trigger
and no bang
is like her voice screaming
at the kid to go away, to not look

"A stranger! That's what the
man outside is. And I'm calling
the police if he keeps staring like that.
DON'T!
you dare look at him. Go to
your room. Now."

What's a man when all
the wars are over?
A squirt gun against the sun.

His good hand, the one with
whole and working fingers
reached into an inner pocket
of his uniform, found
nothing.

He walked on
And it rained on
And there were no more wars

In five years.
I don't know where I'll be in
five years
I promised to myself that
I'll be an official published writer
and never told anyone about it
never told my mother about it
but perhaps in
five years
I'll just come home
drunk and ***** all over the
toilet bowl and sink and my shoes
and shirt and I'll fall face down
on the cold tiles and break
my front teeth
and never smile again
It's no myth, it happened before
but I was living with my
grandmother at that time and it
was perhaps the shock of her life
Yet she forgave me
even when I couldn't forgive myself
All I could do was come up with
promises, like
my very soul was a woman whom
I've wronged so **** bad that
I'll have to sacrifice something
of equal or higher value to make up
for it and even after I'd make up
for it things would just
not be the same as before

So I promised myself that I'll get
seriously serious about writing
and do it consistently and
ignore distractions like friends
and girlfriends and pastimes
and eating and sleeping
I would only go to work in order to
earn enough to survive modestly
and spend the rest of my
existence writing and writing
and writing

I wrote so badly that ******* people
could look down on me with pity
and not much changed
But I wrote a lot
And as long as the goal put
volume over quality the goal would be met

Well, all this writing taught
me something
in the
end.
Taught me that sacrifice is the
key to anything one could wish for
in life.
And the sacrifice gets you what
you wished for precisely
at the time when you no longer want it

The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it'll be
okay

"He's a true fighter," she said. "I know he'll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He'll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him."

"Mam," said the doctor. "We found rusty fragments
of broken needles stuck in his arm. Now, since
you're his only relative
I do believe we shall carry out a discussion
involving septic shock. The effects..."

"He'll make it! I know he will! He's a true
fighter and a champion. I believe in him."

he didn't make it
but it was fine apparently. When they showed his
body in the morgue, the old lady
didn't flinch.
Told them that's not her son. That was a dead
body and her son was alive. He'd never
die like that. He was going to make it.
She was sure he was going
to make it.

she never finished college
but she was a pill expert
and took pride in it

"Here, this one'll make you rock
against your will. You'd need some."

"Not me," I said

"You afraid?"

"Yes."

"Hahahahaaa, afraid o' some pills, boy?
D' you know what being afraid of
this stuff's called around here?"

"I don't know what's called around here
I'll call it wisdom where I'm at. No
pills for me, thanks."

"Wow, you're such a *****, ain't ya?
Oh, well that's too bad, I guess.
Would've been fun to rock the bed tonight
but I ain't lookin' for no *****. I wanna give that."

She gave it to one of my friends along with
some sketchy looking pills
and from that night on they were a couple
of some sorts for a little over a month

And when she took the right pills
she talked in the wrong ways
In her sleep
to the walls
to her cat
to her left foot, but whispering
so the right won't hear

And when she was on pills she would have
her new boyfriend hold her phone
and not allow her to answer if her dad called
Her dad didn't call too often but
somehow managed to call when she was on pills
He just wanted to check how college's going
not knowing she'd quit
or was expelled
months ago

"Ah, my daddy would so **** me
if he found out. Like, yeah, he'd **** me as ****!
But that's all right. I'm all right.
I know this dude who prints 'em, makes 'em
look like the real thing.
Just give 'im the ID an' cash
and you're good. I'll be good."

Well, I don't know
I guess wisdom comes in many, many forms
that friend of mine she hooked up
with considered it wise to
one day just tell her father the truth

The phone rang for the fourth time
and she was lying in bed
naked with froth about her lips
and eyes staring up into her skull
probably looking for salvation or something
He answered and introduced himself to her father
and told him everything,
even switched to video call to show the man his daughter
He thought he'd save her life this way

Sacrifice the relationship to save your partner's life
I guess that's wise

She went into rehab, I heard
and, what do you know, a few years later
she's married and pregnant
I wonder how wise her husband is...

She likes to sleep late in the
afternoon, surpassing even me
and she wakes up a little groggy
and lays in bed and her coffee is a good
doze of browsing on her smartphone
which she lets charging all the short night

And then, when she's had enough
she smiles at me and puts her
phone aside and asks a
Would you rather question

And today's question was
"Would you rather **** a guy or
your own mother?"

"What?" I said. "Where did you find
that one?"

She said, "I made it up. So what's your
answer?"

"****, what would be yours?"

She thought for a bit. "Hehe, it'll have to be
changed a bit for me, no?"

"Yeah," I said. "So would you rather ****
your own dad or another girl?"

"It's a bit unfair," she said, "isn't it?
I mean, for boys. Me, I could easily
do either, hehe."

"Easily?"

"I already pretend you're my
daddy when we do it, don't I?"

"I though it's just a thing girls do."

"That's what they say."

"Well ****, so you sayin' you'd like
me even more if I resembled your
father more?"

"Aw, forget it. Just answer the question."

"If I beat you and kicked you out of the
house, like you said he did, would you
love me more?"

"Forget. It." she said. "Just answer my question."

"You answer mine first," I said.

And she though for a little longer and
though and thought about it
and checked her phone briefly and
finally said, "You know what, let's drop
both at once. What you want for breakfast?"

"I ate while you were sleeping," I said.

"Oh, well, where's the ashtray?"

"There's still some waffles from yesterday's
pack," I said. "And cream."

"Sounds fine. Can I have some in bed?"

"There's coffee too if you come to the
kitchen."

"Wow, you know how to bargain,
don't you?"

"Unlike your daddy you mean? Heard
he was fired last week. What's he
doing now?"

She gave a brief shake of her head
and got out of bed in her *******
stopped by me, kissed my cheek and
whispered in my ear, "Let's. Drop. It.
Okay?"

I said nothing
and she went to the bathroom.
When she came back the coffee
was ready and her ashtray was
on the table.
Her eyes didn't leave the
phone as she sat down.

he declared himself insane
before the world

and the world did worse
than not to
believe or ridicule him

The world
ignored him

He was an old writer
with a body
rotting from the inside
A cancer in his lungs, right
around the heart

Effort made him faint
Oftentimes the effort of sitting
on the toilet and pushing

But when he wasn't on the
toilet he
was at his desk

writing

And smoking. There was
a candle on the corner of his desk
always burning

The rule was that for every
seven minutes spent
not writing he'd hold his hand
above the flame for
seven seconds

His hands looked like decomposing
carcasses of mole-rats

but they could
still hold
the pen

He would go on writing
for the rest of
his life

all seven
hours of it

the screen
the keyboard
the small room
the closed door
locked door
closed window
blinders keeping
the sun away
a chair
an empty stomach
protesting against
tequila
more tequila

ready

you can write now

young people,

they think nobody has the
same thoughts as them
they take great pride in some made up
originality

as if really nobody ever thought up
scenarios of themselves descending
some rope from some helicopter and
dropping in the middle of enemy forces and
starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an ****
and killing all the bad guys while not
taking one bullet
One man army

or there’s those other thoughts
of being simply the greatest at some
sport and being admired and envied for it

also, the thoughts of *** in all its forms

the thoughts of mindless violence

of saving the day

of being somewhere else and doing something else

all kinds of thoughts
and all the minds who think them label them as original

but they’re not original

they’re every young person’s thoughts

and me,
I also have thoughts I consider original

I think of how it is to be old
pretty much every **** day
I think of me being old and dried up and weak
and waiting for death

it’s not a very pleasant thought
especially for someone in their twenties
but it’s my way of labeling my thoughts original

maybe in some wheel chair
with a nurse pushing me from behind
No kids
no family
no fortune
no achievements
a life wasted
death watching from above
mockingly

and myself looking up at it
smiling
*******, you think you got me
but little do you know that
while I was able, while I was more lively than
a rotting carrot
I defied you by ripping apart pieces of me
that will stick with the world
long after I’m gone

Oh, they might not be great pieces or even good ones
but behind they remain as you take me away

and all of them branded with my name
It’s through them that I am
immortal

and there’s nothing you can do about it

great, good
or bad,
you cannot **** a poet

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, *******
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 ****
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 *****, 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

you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company

So you exist most of the time
dear muse

“You made me take drugs,” she reproached
him

But he didn’t hear her
over the pain in his lower belly

“You made me take drugs,” she repeated.

“Huh?”

“And for this I’ve decided to
replace you. With someone better, someone who
would never make me do something
I don’t feel right with.”

He shook his head and noticed
that he was in the kitchen
tied to a chair
And there was a horrible pain in his lower belly
and his chest and
most of his body
and he felt like vomiting

His woman was at the gas stove
pouring oil over a frying sausage
in a pan

The dog was at her feet
salivating

“This is what you get,” she said, “for making
me do drugs, darling.”

“What?” He was still with a foot
in the world of painful dreams
but he watched her take
the sausage from the pan and toss it
to the dog

The dog grabbed it before
it could land on the floor and began to chew

She pointed at the dog. “He. He’s gonna
take your place now. He’ll never
make me do drugs.”

“What?” he said. Still not understanding
what was going on.
He looked down and saw the blood
and the tissue dangling from
his crotch.

Then he screamed
And the dog barked

If you wanna be a writer
Write

If you wanna be a good one
don't get yourself a cozy, comfy,
warm, clean studio. Just don't.
It won't help you, it'll do the opposite.

If you wanna be a great one
be a wanderer, do more living than
writing, break rules and laws and
glasses and bottles and heads and
lots of hearts

If you wanna be an outstanding one
break yourself

If you wanna be godlike
join the gods
There's a shotgun in the corner