Standing on the Threshold of Madness



Praise for Benjamin Blake and Standing on the Threshold of Madness...

"I was most impressed with Standing on the Threshold of Madness. These dark, brooding vignettes do far more than send a shudder up one's spine (although they do that again and again, with elegance and panache). Benjamin Blake has found a way to infuse into his horrific lyrics a keen sensitivity to human emotions, an understanding of the fragility of life, and a bleak portrayal of the evanescence of all existence. This is a volume that aficionados of weird poetry will want to read over and over."--S. T. Joshi

“Benjamin Blake relishes funereal lyricism with a spice of surrealism.” - Ramsey Campbell

"Language and imagery rule in this collection of dark visions. Blake has a distinctive voice, rich in surrealism, and he uses it to considerable effect." - Bruce Boston, SFPA Grandmaster Poet

“A plethora of dark and haunting poems that could be likened to a bone chilling symphony overall!  Mood enhancing language that will curdle the blood, and excellent, original imagery!” - Marge Simon, Bram Stoker Award winning poet

OUT NOW FROM PARALLEL UNIVERSE PUBLICATIONS 
AVAILABLE FROM AMAZON 
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Broken Camera Lens

The wind whistles over washed-out fields
I have spent countless days searching
Amidst tall dead grass
And dust-smothered railway shacks
For any trace of her
Alive, or otherwise

A raven watches
Perched atop a weathered fencepost
His gaze is cold and direct
Suddenly distracted by something on the stones of the tracks
Flashing in the noontide sun

The carrion eater takes flight
as I approach
A fragment of glass
Convex and iridescent
Inherently, I know it belonged to her 

This whole thing reeks of misplaced time
I am still no closer
This has gone on for years now

I don’t believe it will ever end 

(from the forthcoming poetry collection, Standing on the Threshold of Madness, to be published by Parallel Universe Publications.)
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Disembodied

Drained of corporeal life
Swamp lights dancing a slow dirge
I bleed out in the mire

Ascending, I make new vows
Time is now broken
Pliable to this fevered will
They will burn like November

No need for the rib spreader
A meteor-shower arrival
Will end in cataclysmic departure

Amid the flames and bone fragments
I will forever be the filament in this eternal beacon
Guiding the forcefully departed
To the crooked gates of Hell



First appeared in The Indiana Horror Review 2016.
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Chicago Typewriter

The snow is coming down fierce
As I weave through the midnight streets
Hands glued to the wheel, knuckles white
She's waiting at the docks
But the clock is counting down

Shoulder open the car door
Engine still running
The soles of my shoes slapping an echo
Out across the frosted ground
There's something crumpled up ahead
I fight harder against the savage wind
Slicing in from the lake

She lies in a pool of blood
Already starting to freeze over
Snowflakes landing on her pale cheek
Settling in her lashes
Mouth slightly open
And no life left in those azure eyes
There were more bullet holes
Than I could count
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Coven

A flame is extinguished
In the still of night
Another is ignited
And with it comes clandestine sentences
Spoken in a foreign tongue

This cloaked closed circle
Watches with wary eyes from afar
Spells of protection
Incantations only uttered
Behind doors always closed

A bat is caught mid-flight
And kissed upon the mouth
Before being released
Into a blood red sky

Already they know this unhallowed name
Head bowed, I stand before the unseen jury
I offer up this woodcut flesh
For the final daughter
To sink claws and teeth into

And devour at her will 
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