Alis Volat Propriis 

Wandering the desolate Oregon coast

Salt-swept rocks shrouded in ocean mist

Something flutters in the pines positioned on the cliff-face

And somewhere not too close

A dog barks, ceaseless and urgent

Joined by the cries of plaintive gulls

I always dreamt of shipwrecks

And lamp-lit smugglers’ coves

Of sun-bleached bone

And sand-worn bottles

Their messages long lost at sea

So it is here that I’ll sojourn

Lay down with someone else’s wife

This old body needs its rest

And it’s time we moved on from writing letters

At least for a little while

Sophie, for the sake of Conversation

 

Alone again in autumn

The leaves drift down from the trees

Dew drops accurately reflect isolation

Newly departed from a passing bus

She’s standing on the roadside

Clad in a plaid jacket and over-sized white headphones

And I could have been hit by it

By the way I’m feeling

If only I could

Catch more than inquisitive looks

From such a pretty face

I’m fumbling in the outfield

From the prettiest face

Tripped and fallen again

Why am I still writing these stupid songs?

A whimsical by-product of delusion

 

Self-Sadist

 

I would beat my own brains in

Just to make the incessant tempest stop

Take a butcher’s cleaver to my wrists

So I could give the Devil these idle hands

And cut out the middleman

 

I would smash and splinter the bones in my feet

Just to stop myself from being able to keep walking away

Take a scalpel to the tubes entwined southward

To cease ruining organs with other organs

And kill all chances of spawning another like me

 

But the truth is

That I really do like it

The crippling, mind-numbing pain

The sweet release that comes with the blood-flow

And the subsequent opportunity

To raise trembling from the death-bed

Just to do it all over again

 

 

Something Happened 

Today started six years ago

Halfway across the country

She was still living her first life

Unbeknownst to the both of us

Messages received through time and space

Spoken through copper wire

The triumvirate of crucifixes

Frown upon a manuscript claimed by libations

The elements defy paradigms

Write this down in longhand:

You stole my basement and my heart

Bio: 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 poetry and prose collections, A Prayer for Late October, Southpaw Nights, and Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead. His debut novel, The Devil’s Children, was published this October. Find more of his work at www.benjaminblake.com