The November First Selected Poet is

Benjamin Blake

Please feel free to email Benjamin at: benjaminblakeyrtw@gmail.com

ALAN WHICKERS AND THE BUTCHER'S HOOK

An inquisitive glance from a girl
Gets met by one that most closely resembles
That of a wounded animal,
Two score tales of despair
Lay shallowly buried
Behind an opaque layer of hazel soil

Porcelain skinned young woman
Lies stripped amongst the brambles and loam
Under a hawthorn hedgerow at the edge of a copse
Her eyes once shone so bright
Now faded to a lacklustre surface
Dull and forgotten 

I am one man in an estate built for near one hundred
Stomach rotting from red wine
That pours like the springtime rain each night
The grand piano holding the weight of this withering body
Phantom compositions, a cacophony of
Discords from a devilish symphony
Scream throughout the silence of the small hours

Soon I will perish, wilt away
Like the petals of graveside flowers
Though there will be no sentimental gestures
Only a rough plot in the Potter's Field
Confined to a cheap pine coffin
These brittle bones turning slowly to dust 

HELLO DEER

Headlights caught you by surprise
Roadside pity pouring from your eyes
There's only the furs to witness this
And the guilt and glass sticking in your skin
Bathe in new born blood on the dented grille
Your alibi fell through with your fractured legs

Insomnia suggested a late night drive
Gloved hands in death-grip on the steering wheel
Snow drifts alongside troubled thoughts
Down empty streets and vacant routes

Flashlight shone through thin disguise
Slackened mouth spilling disjointed lies
It's only you and me kid
And the torn fabric and perfume reeking potently of sin
Cask in the light of a tell tale moon
Your dignity died next to the 'Welcome' sign
That should have read
"So who was it, the boy on the track team, or the man with the tyre iron?"

WE ALL FLOAT DOWN HERE

Pry open the casket, smile framed by the light of the spirit lamp
On the early evening of her funeral day, she looks as pretty as always
Sophie rides shot-gun as you drive the long way, one hand rests atop of hers
Her flesh now as cold as her wedding ring, but her heart stills burns like a ravenous furnace
Once home, pour two glasses of cheap Merlot and raise hers to Arden-smeared lips
Twin red rivers trickle from the corners of her mouth
Glen Miller serenades by moonlight as you entwine throughout the night
And as the morning sun begins to yawn, let the blade caress your wrists in one last goodbye kiss

THREE YEARS OF NIGHT

A lengthy affair with the nocturnal sky
Carried out on near empty trains
And cracked sidewalks beneath towering city blocks
In the seat of a swing-set alone
The houselights of the suburban set
Flickered to life simultaneously with the stars
A crackling recording of lonely piano keys
With an aging monologue
Played as momentum was gained
I swung higher and higher
Until I parted ways with the wood and chains
And floated towards the heavens
Passing bats in flight
In the chill of the winter air
But I awoke on the parks dew-covered grass
In the wee hours of the morning
And carried on my way home

That night stayed with me like an infatuated scar
And swiftly took over my conscience
Until my mind was almost totally cloaked in darkness
It clung to me like cancer
Enveloping every cell
I would wake in the dreaded afternoon
Seeking solace in the shadows
Eventually rising from wine-stained bath-tubs
When the sun had finally sunk
Well below the horizon

I took an international flight
Back to my crumbling home town
And found it falling into the emerald ocean
I sat back and smoked a stolen cigarette
In company of sirens
And watched the buildings disappear
With the rising tide

Aboard another lengthy plane journey
This time to the city of fallen angels
Sipping an unfortunately petite whiskey
To play distraction to agitating thirst
I sighed and flirted with a pale reflection
In the cell like window
I watched the sun come up at around 3AM
While the other passengers
Got lost in dreams

Time has passed
One hundred broken clocks
With one thousand silent alarms
I've shown lovers their graves
And shallowly buried them in despair
I've grown absent from the Gentlemen's Clubs
And I have burnt a handful of carefully hidden photographs
The chemical drenched paper
Burns so strong and bright
These days my whereabouts is relatively unknown
(Apart from a select few that can be trusted)
To the rest of them
I have become a faded memory
Much like a late actor
From an almost forgotten silent movie
Although from time to time
My name is whispered on dead cold frosted nights
It carries in the haunted air
Through dying trees
And crooked tombstones
Drowning in the grounds
Of local Catholic churches    

Benjamin Blake was born in the winter of 1985 (in a hospital that is now demolished) and grew up in a small town named Eltham, where he spent a lot of time playing in the woods that sprawled behind his house and living inside of his head. His work has been published by various magazines and online in Australia, USA and England.

He is currently at work on a collection of short fiction. He believes in ghosts.

You can read more of his work HERE