don’t trade the madness by Bogdan Dragos

“You need help,” they
told him. “Get some therapy, some
counseling, something. Reach out, man,
you need help.”

He would raise his
glass at
such advice and say, “Oh, hell yeah, I
need all the help I can
get. Thanks.” But he
would never actually reach for it

He’d reach for the
closest bottle
and pour himself another drink

and maybe reach
for some leg
or breast or ass

By this time the ladies knew he
wasn’t a bum, even though
he looked like one
with his ragged, soiled green suit
and his worn out shoes
his cobweb-like greasy hair
and the unkempt beard that looked
like he was chewing on
a dead, rotting octopus

He was loaded
with cash
despite all that

And the explanation was simple

He was
a poet

He laughed at all those well-meaning
advisers and their

He would return to his home
in the slums
and wrestle with a door that wouldn’t
open because of the mounts of
empty bottles from
the other side

and would enter through the window
once more

fall on his face

start bleeding
from his nose and lips

and look at the redness pooling on
the dirty floor beneath
and start laughing

“Haahaaaah! Advising me to seek
help. What garbage. Calling me
a fool.
Fools are those who trade their madness
for the privilege to fit in.
Fuck those people! I’m gonna write
a poem with the
used tampon my new girl gave me.”

He went to his
searching his pockets

10 Comentarios Agrega el tuyo

    1. Oh, thank you! (´つ ヮ ⊂)

      Le gusta a 1 persona

  1. Terveen Gill dice:

    There was no sign of what was coming at the end. I’d say a poet embraced by madness (in every way).

    Le gusta a 2 personas

    1. (⊙_◎) Someone once said to me that the terms «crazy» and «writer» should be considered synonyms. Not sure if she was right or not :))

      Le gusta a 2 personas

    2. Mmhmm. I am probably similar to this man.

      Le gusta a 1 persona

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