Welcome back poet Benjamin Blake! Last week Benjamin shared his poem, Indian Burial Grounds with us. This week he’s leading us on a trip into the bizarre with a visit to the Vortex Club.
To Inspire You:
Wrapped in red curtain
Only the polished toes of a pair of leather shoes
Protruding from the bottom
An urn stands on a plinth to the left
Ashes nestled safely inside
To the right, is a small glass ball
Clutched in a clawed foot
Her breathing comes whispered and tight
As she dances across the carpeted floor
Gyrating to the pulse of a song
Sung in the key of Despair
Where has your torso gone?
Below, below, below
Where were your fingers
When he took you in the brook?
The letter-opener was used ingeniously
While she covered her eyes with her hands
Now the toes tap to the rhythm
Poem Written by Benjamin Blake
More about Benjamin:
He 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, and the poetry and prose collections Southpaw Nights, and Standing on the Threshold of Madness, as well as the forthcoming split All the Feral Dogs of Los Angeles. Find more of his writing (and photography) at www.benjaminblake.com.
Created by You:
Here are the words smithed and the phrases turned by you guys last week:
— Eric Z (@zmudae) June 20, 2018
— SelkieMade (@selkiemade) June 20, 2018
— J.P. Knight (@JPKnight001) June 19, 2018
— Nano Horror (@tweetsthecreeps) June 19, 2018
— David Tully (@CynicalEyebrow) June 19, 2018
— A. F. Stewart (@scribe77) June 19, 2018
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