 |
| The sun seeps over buried denizens. |
Through the Limbs of Crooked Oaks
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)
