The poetry of Benjamin Blake

Secret Historical Society

Wandering these small town streets again
In search of everything
And nothing at all

Broken sidewalks choked with weeds
Churches barely breathing
In the heathen company of downcast citizens

Wooded banks cast with debris
Rabbit skins and unwanted kittens
Left to drown in the cold murky water
Of the creek that wound its way underground
Dragging naïve pupils
Into its shadowed maw

So many dead upon the hill
Looking down over the sprawl of fields
Empty farm houses
Holding blood-soaked secrets
And the nearby smoke
Of chimneys in the dead of winter
It always rained for days at a time

 

 

The Moon Through the Pines

Parking lot cigarette
As the smoke drifted skyward
The bare branches of a plane
Against the glow of a lamp
Made me remember who I was

Backyard smoking
Back on the ranch
The moon hung through the pines
And I was struck by its haunting beauty

We make these little moments ourselves
It’s the only way to save myself


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 writing (and photography) at www.benjaminblake.com.

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