More Pills, Please and other poems by Benjamin Blake

More Pills, Please

I’ve got a song stuck in my head I’ve never heard
And photographs of girls long gone
Dancing behind these shuttered eyes
Oh shit, I think it’s happening again
Let’s see what the walls have to whisper tonight

And now I’m paranoid
Like a basket case
Like a serial killer when the cops come knocking

To drink, or not to drink
That was never the question
And if all roads lead back home
Then I’m well and truly fucked

I smoked so much my lungs gave out
So I dug myself a newer grave
Beneath the shadow of an older tomb
And crawled in there to die
At least for right now

Ingénue

Demure and delicate
Wielding a scathing intellect
With machinegun eyes
That riddle my heart with holes
Holier than the Vatican in flames

Oh, please breathe newfound life
Into these coal-black lungs
For I fear she only exists
Upon the mind’s splintered stage

A Slow Surrender

Laid own my illegal arms
It’s not the first time I’ve admitted defeat
And certainly won’t be the last

You have to learn when it’s just not worth it
And there will always be
Future battles to fight

Golden Acres Retirement Home (or Bobby Thorne VS. The Hourglass)

Paint a picture of off-white walls
And uneventful weeks
Each morning the nurse wheels me in for breakfast
And my daily dose of bitter pills
After lunch,
Between the 2PM soap opera and bingo hour
I wheel myself down to the park
The one with the rose garden and the pond
With model sail boats
And smoke a secret cigarette
I’ve been caught once or twice
Just like the time behind the auditorium
When I was still in high school

The hospital gowns are unflattering
But I still run a comb through my wisps of snow-white hair
I can’t remember how long ago I got here
But it seems almost as long as the time before it
And I feel my thoughts drift to you
Life has been meaningless since you passed
All I’m left with is haunting memories
And a blurred tattoo
That was inked in my Sergeant’s room
The year after we first met
Who would have ever thought
That the last home I would have
Would be an apartment with
Dementia-crazed and invalid neighbors
Worst still is that the landlord
Hasn’t seemed to realize
The prohibition ended over sixty years ago
If these are the golden years
Then I want a goddamn refund

Paint a picture of a lonely dying old man
With no-one by his side
I said that it was my last home
I guess I was wrong
‘Cause they moved me right down the street
To that highrise hospital
With the whitest walls and sterile smiles
Drip sprouts from the crook of a bruised-blue arm
Every other breath is a wheezing cough
All I got is cancerous cells for good company
Well at least the nurses are better looking
But not as pretty as you
Oh, Jennifer where have you gone
Since time stole you from me?
If I could end it all right now I would
But I’m too scared to try
They put Harry on watch
Since he tried to turn off his machine
The days go on for miles
Is life that cruel?
And God, if you can hear me right now
You can go and fuck yourself
Because you’re nothing but a cheating bastard
You could send me straight to hell
But it wouldn’t make a difference
Because I’m already there
Every night I dream of death
And wake up disappointed


Benjamin Blake was born in the July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. Since then, he has spent time in Australia, and Southern California. He is the author of the poetry and prose collections, A Prayer for Late October, Southpaw Nights, Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead, the novel The Devil’s Children & his new collection for Secret History Books Dime Store Poetry 2019.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s