The Sunrise Over Burial Grounds
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.)
(taken from the poetry collection, Standing on the Threshold of Madness.)
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
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
Chimerical
Stumbling into this diffused dream
Gilded rays of light
Caress forgotten skin
The forsaken do their time, naturally
And I have drowned myself in the fountain of youth
Many times over
Her lily-sweet breath
Expelled the water from my lungs
Those delicate fingers
Dressing wounds in clean bandages
And her lips pressed soft
Against the flesh of my cheek
Awoken to a nightmare
Laid bare upon cold stone
A heart beating in a clawed hand
And losing more blood by the second
I Am One with the Dead Trees & Razorblade Winters
This tomb is much too cold
As all three-and-a-half hands point south
And the pages on the calendar
Curl up and die with the dead leaves
This mind has been fractured one too many times
Though, I use the insanity to my advantage
Scrawling words on makeshift parchment
While watching buildings rise from the leaping flames
Old bones that grew disfigured
Now comfortable beneath atrophic skin
But the all-familiar thirst for blood
Never wanes
Never will
The Old Haunting Grounds
Those crooked tombs
Have been scrubbed and repaired
Stained-glass, covered with a casing of metalwork
But still, the nooks of old stone
Whisper their fond memories
Of clandestine fondling
And kisses stolen
Beneath the towering cross
The ancient oak
Gaping hole in its trunk
Filled with dead leaves and stagnant water
Bears witness to better times
Though, the hunt never really ends
The perpetual padding of paws
Upon rain-swept grounds
Hell-bent on the trail
Of a pretty girl
Chiaroscuro
An empty archway
In a garden of leaves
A sky torn asunder by barbed wire
Factory arms
A ticking clock
The decaying gull
In a garden of leaves
A sky torn asunder by barbed wire
Factory arms
A ticking clock
The decaying gull
On the stones by the
rusted tracks
A violin hung in the tendrils of a grapevine
An empty bottle upon an ink-stained desk
The shutter click
Before time itself
breaksA violin hung in the tendrils of a grapevine
An empty bottle upon an ink-stained desk
The shutter click
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
OUT NOW FROM PARALLEL UNIVERSE PUBLICATIONS
AVAILABLE FROM AMAZON
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.)
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.
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
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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