Benjamin Blake

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 5, 2017

Benjamin Blake was born in the July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. He is the author of the novel, The Devil’s Children, the poetry and prose collections, A Prayer for Late October, Southpaw Nights, Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead, and Standing on the Threshold of Madness, as well as the forthcoming split, All the Feral Dogs of Los Angeles (with Cole Bauer). Find more of his work at www.benjaminblake.com
 
 
 
 Amourette
 
This one’s waiting to be written
You can find past references if you know where to find them
But you don’t
And I’m not in the mood for explanations
You’re dressed up like Lolita
And the sailor tattoos on those lovable thighs
Plant dirty thoughts that grow like sycamores 
Before discarding their springtime fashion
These hands are apt at more than just penning prose and poetry
And my timing’s never been better timed
 
 
 
 
20/20 51/50 
 
Motel room: covered walls to floor in blood
A note discovered beneath a worn paperback novel 
Resting on the nightstand 
Beside a half-finished gallon of cheap sweet wine 
 
It happened again: slashed-wrist-blackout-drunk
The cops will soon be knocking
A potentially lengthy stint in the Twin Towers 
Just another picture perfect sunny day 
In Los Angeles 
 
 
 
 
Hopelessly Devoted to Being Hopeless
 
Sometimes I don’t even know what year it is
Sleeping better during the day
Metaphorical makes much more sense than material
Problems and solutions to situations I never wanted a part in
I don’t even care if I’m making sense or not anymore
I’ve left that one by the roadside
Next to any prosaic bullshit that I don’t need
There’s a lot to be learned from dogs and cats
And pulling the proverbial plug on the telephone
Why does my pen smell like blood? 
Oh, that’s right
 
 
 
 
Clyde Stays Home from School
 
Reading comic books in the attic
Really should be at school
Faking illness is easy –
with a hypochondriac for a mother
Release the hostages!
Britney Spears is on TV
I think it’s time for a sandwich 
The dog ate half the pastrami
Nap on the couch
Wake up & plan to play video games
Oh no!
Britney Spears is on the tube again
 
 
 
 
Jane Doe Eyes
 
Supermarket aisle smile
You don’t know
You’re coming home with me
Vestal virgin garment clad
This excitement is sickening
I see you see you’ve caught my eye
A deer caught in the headlights 
Those leggings cling to thighs with dear life
With an absence of a panty line
Check you out in the check out
Retrieving items from the cart
Bent forward so lithe
I think she’s giving me a sign
My station wagon’s waiting in the parking lot
I have a roll of duct tape if you change your mind
 
 
 
 
 
Another Poem for Dani 
 
You’ve been married
For a about half a year now
And no closer to happiness 
 
Even the comfort the bottle brings 
Is thwarted by the Mormonic dogma 
That runs so rampant in your home state 
 
I would have shared your birthday and your bed 
Woken you with coffee and little kisses upon the cheek 
California was always an option 
You always had other options 
 
So now you lay tortured 
In your picket-fence purgatory 
Sick to the skinny stomach 
That will likely soon swell and distend 
With the inaugural child 
Which will further drain the life 
From your chapped teat 
 
And maybe I sit here 
With only bitter chords for company 
But I have my relative integrity 
And you’ll never read this anyway 
 
 
 
 

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