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Poems - Benjamin Blake

Let the Motel Room Neon Light be My Confessional

I sliced open these hardened veins
Leaving me cauterizing with alcohol yet again
It's the heart or the bottle
Or a combination of the two

I once fucked two girls on a football field
When night had fallen
And their boyfriends celebrated a birthday
Only yards away

You have no idea of the depravity
Of the secrets buried
Beneath a sly smile
And a horoscope
of hopelessness

The Real Roominghouses of Los Angeles 

Hanging out 
For the sweet smog-choked Southern California sun 
There are much worse ways to asphyxiate 
And I hold little fear of death, anyway 

To lie buried beneath 
A mountain of scattered screenplays and unpublished novels 
In a cheap hotel room
As the streetlamp flickers through the curtainless window 
And the roaches scuttle with purpose across the typewriter keys 
Drawing the death-rattle of the dying 
I will be sated enough 

Illegal Firearms

City lights, beneath a burning skyline
Bums and taxi-cabs crawl on by
Left in the bar, lipstick note scrawled on a napkin 
I should have washed my hands of her months ago
But for all my education, I never seem to fucking learn
Cross my heart and the choked street
The end is nigh

Chain-smoking Parliaments and making plans
Cable channel porn playing from the den
This time tomorrow night
Our rendezvous will be well under way
There’s always time for a lengthy dip in the local quarry

There’s Always Mexico

Trying to keep the aces in my hand
But these fingers won’t cease to shake
I’ve developed a penchant 
For trying my luck at Russian roulette
No matter how hard I try and pretend
I know it’s just a matter of time
Each and every day 
I make myself sick to the stomach
And do my best to hide in fiction
But this is more surreal
Than any pill-induced dream
And she’s just a fey as I am
So I’m putting down all I have
If all else fails
There’s always Mexico

Benjamin Blake was born in the July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. He is the author of the novel, The Devil's Children, the poetry and prose collections, A Prayer for Late OctoberSouthpaw NightsReciting Shakespeare with the Dead, and Standing on the Threshold of Madness, as well as the forthcoming split, All the Feral Dogs of Los Angeles (with Cole Bauer). Find more of his work at

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POEMS - Cole Bauer

So what, motherfucker? I had a few drinks  And some hookahs With shisha and weed mixed
So what, motherfucker? I made some jokes A few comments But it's shunned upon  Something so innocent Because the pussies say so 
So what, motherfucker? I'm listening to music  Wasted With a storm outside Writing whatever I want Until I can't anymore
The sound of Multi-colored leaves Crash landing  On my patio Should bring me Happiness With it being fall My favorite season
Instead Like everything else In this life It is taken away From me
I may be in it But I can't enjoy it The world won't let me It wins With its distractions And everything else Will be fine Next summer
The shit can get so deep That you slip and fall right in Whether it's rain in the storm And you're on foot going home Or the stress of the struggle Causing life to plummet  But I have my slip-resistant shoes On, tied extra tight And enough anger to take on  Harvey and whatever thing in this world I…