Bogdan Dragos

fruit flies and eternal love

sunny day outside
streets full
of people seeking water
and cold beers

overcast day inside
the cold, irregular walls
of the basement 
in the abandoned building
The clouds are alive
and very annoying

She slaps his forehead
with a sloppy hand 
soaked in vomit

“Ouch!” he screams

And she says, “I can’t stand
these fucking 
fruit flies. Why must 
they follow everywhere we go?”

He turns around 
on the wool blanket and 
shoves away a few empty bottles
of cheap wine
drops his head onto
her naked lap. “Because, baby, we’re
putrid. You and I, we’re both
dead on the inside
and out. And the fruit flies
love the smell
and taste of our bodies. Especially
when they come 
together and sweat a lot.”

His hand grabs at
her upper thigh
and the fingers 
tap playfully along the 
piano-key-like cut marks
that adorn it
from crotch to knee

She tries to squash another
fruit fly
on his back


gives up

drifts into sobs
and cries

“Noo, don’t cry,” he whispers

“Darling,” she says through
sour tears that 
get immediately assaulted by
the fruit flies, “are we
really dead?” 

“Yeah,” he says after 
two full minutes
of struggling to open his eyes. 
“Dead to them all 
who walk outside in the warm
sun and go to jobs
to feed families, and dead
to our own families. And 
to God. We’re dead, alright.”

She wails and 
moves her vomit-soaked
hand before her face
to chase away 
the fruit flies

achieves the opposite

wails some more

looks around for
her favorite razor blade

doesn’t find it

wails some more

grabs a bottle and swings
it against the wall
behind her back
but not strong enough
to break
just drops it

And she wails some more
he grabs her hand and 
holds it against his
face and 
starts sucking on her fingers

It tastes not very
different from 
the wine they drank
so he keeps sucking
and tells her, “Don’t worry.”

“What?” she asks

“Don’t worry, I said. Even if
we’re dead, at least 
we’re dead together. And it’s 
a thousand billion times
better than
being alive and apart. We’re still
better off than those
walking outside in the warm sun.
Those fools stay together
till death does ‘em apart. Pathetic. 
We’re staying together in
death itself, dear. Our love
is eternal!
We got each other
and our cool grave
and our thousands of flying children
here roaming about
and the sweet nectar of each
other’s bodies. What else
could one ask for in life
or in death?” 

“Aw, you sweet talking
failure of a poet,
come and kiss me!” 

He did 

and not even the 
vomit or the 
coughing of blood could
break their lips apart

and the 
fruit flies
joined in

and outside people still
walked in
the warm sun 
oblivious of what true love
looked like

6 thoughts on “Bogdan Dragos

  1. Damn, this is some brilliant, powerful poetry right here. A knock-it-out-of-the park piece.
    Glad I came across it.


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