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Ben John Smith

‘Say you will remember me’

I always wrote poems

But I never told anyone

That I wrote poems

But one time when I was

11 I drank half my mums

Bottle of port while I babysat

My baby sister

And I told the hot chick who

Lived next door to me

That I wrote poems

And showed her my note pad

Of love poems

Because I wanted her to

fall in love with me but she

just comforted me and

Said her boyfriend

Wrote poems too

but he was strung out

On heroin and I was just a

11-year old kid

Drunk on port

Listening to Michael Jackson

And Paul McCartney records

He could have kicked my ass

If he knew I was hitting on his

Woman but he got jumped

By some wog kids

At a playground near

My house and

They cut him up pretty bad

And poetry never got

Me laid

But it has always ever

Since made me feel

Like a little kid

In a world full of

Real mother fuckers.


‘I’m a World Famous Poet’

Me and my girl

stand

at the kitchen table.

In my hand is a cold tin.

In hers, a flume of pink

champagne.

A girl with massive tits

and the prettiest

brown curls

you ever saw

calls me “the poet”

and

asks to fuck the both of us

in an orgy I couldn’t handle

anyway.

But we have to speak to her boyfriend

'cause he’s a little bit shy.

On the drive home,

with the passing red lights

a smudge to my

drunken eyes,

I say,

“You hear that, baby?

They called me a poet.

I’m a world-famous poet...”

I drink the last

warm dregs of my beer,

throw it out the window.

At home I fall asleep on the couch

and dream about the end of the world.

In my dream,

everyone is panicking.

Saying silly things

like,

“We are all going to die!

Somebody save us!

We are all going to die!”

But not me.

I’m a world-famous poet.

I’m relaxed and calm.

Sleeping on the couch at my mum's

in a puddle of warm drool

and a semi-tented

pair of dirty blue

jeans.


‘The Edge’

A man pushes his daughter

in a wheel chair

to the front of the ocean

on a winding

road on the cliff side.

She stares out

despondently

and drools on

her shoulder.

We are all trying to

prove to each other

that this world

is a

beautiful

place.


‘Chump’

My girl calls me a chump

for giving away my books.

She thinks if your mates

can't spend thirty bucks

on a piece of your soul

but will

gladly drop fifty on a three-

legged nag at short odds,

it kinda shows the state

of this

mess

we are in.

A kangaroo out the front

of her home

lies dying

in a ditch.

I sit with him

in the pouring rain

and try to keep his

black eyes

on the lily whites

of my own.

I tell him

it's all going to be okay.

I'm lying

and

he can tell.

The widow next door

waddles around

in a leopard print

night gown

and leaves cherry red lipstick

on the butts

of her

cigarettes.

The big red Roo

lies in the ditch,

dying.

Its leg broken by a car.

It lies there,

bleeding in the rain

on this early

Saturday morning.

I sit with him a while

and wait for the coppers

while the rain

drips from my hood.

The police revolver

sounds twice,

in cosmic booms,

and my friend drops his head

into the mud

and dies like

a frightened

hero.

I understand

why my friends don’t buy this shit.

I hope my girl knows

why I give it away.


by

Ben John Smith

Editor in Chief at Horror Sleaze Trash

Part time human - full time creep. Hack poet. He would fuck a cat... Maybe, if the mood was right.

Image supplied by, and of, Ben John. 

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