All the Feral Dogs of Los Angeles

From Benjamin Blake and Cole Bauer, comes the new split poetry collection All the Feral Dogs of Los Angeles. Poems full of life, death, dust, lust, and liquor, All the Feral Dogs of Los Angeles reads like a drunken love-letter to the City of Fallen Angels. 


Available from Amazon and:

Last Word Books 
111 Cherry Street NE
Olympia, WA




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Fall Children - an Occult Radio Drama


FALL CHILDREN

Twelve years ago, Mark Jackson was a teenager starting a new high school, in a new town, holding little hope of making new friends. To his surprise, he found some. Though, more accurately, they found him. Soon, Mark finds himself under the wing of the charismatic James, loyal Carl, and beautiful Heather – who seems to have taken quite a shine to him. They are more than he could have ever hoped for. So what if they dabbled in a little black magic on the side? He was happy, how bad could it really be? How wrong he was. 
Now in his 20’s, Mark is attending regular talk-therapy sessions with a renowned psychologist. Through these, his story unfolds towards its cataclysmic conclusion. 




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Reading the Signs in Fallen Branches

An uncharacteristically stormy summer night
Crawled in without warning
Rattling the window frames
And wrenching leaves from wind-whipped trees
There is some not-insignificant meaning
Behind this surprise visit
Though, not much more is known
Aside from the unknown
And the intrinsic knowledge
That existence has to mean something more
Somewhere, sometime  

(taken from the poetry collection, Standing on the Threshold of Madness.)
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Graveyard Feline Morning



Walking the rows
Of aged and sunken stone
I came across a large patchwork feral cat
Laying at its feet
Was the still, small body
Of a young rabbit
The feline scampered away
Along the leaf-littered path
And disappeared
Into the surrounding stones

I picked up the still-warm body
And found it still alive
I cradled the creature in my arms
Stroking fingers through its soft fur

Several rows east
Sat upon the edge of a tomb
I found it had died in my hands

I placed its limp body
Upon the grave of a dead child
Marked only with the words ‘Little Tommy’
And that’s where I left it
As I wandered away
Through the crooked stones


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Axe & Scythe

Driving through endless cornfields
Grain silos sprout from their midst
An overcast Midwestern afternoon
Grey clouds stretched for miles
The old farmhouse sits somewhere around here
Sags on its weary piles, long abandoned
Once home to a hardworking, honest family
And as the story goes
The First Nebraska Bank sent word
Of seizing the well-kept house and grounds  
Father, mother, two lovely little girls
Sent into a state of irreparable shock
Days of cellar-distilled whiskey
Has rendered him spent of body and mind
Until one fateful moonlit night
He took a scythe to those cherubic daughters
And an axe to his weeping wife
Finally, taking his own life
By hanging from the rafters
Nothing left
But the creak of wood
And the south-pointed toes of scuffed boots
Swaying softly in a phantom breeze


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