Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Electricity sprays through my veins

I maintain this same ink stain-

A mundane selfless act

Of writing my thoughts.

I light another cigarette-

Watch the embers flick

Flash turns into ash

Smoke turns to my breath.


The Walrus said:

The time has come-

You fell from grace and

I just wanted a small taste.

As we skip along this

Redbrick Road-

Viewed by topographical vantage points

Step on a crack

Shatter your Mother’s facts.

Like the sidewalk’s weeds-

Peeking for the slightest hint

Of Vitamin D

Crevices spell the initials

Of love-sick Scarecrows.

Abstract ink bleeds

Like mascara streaks-

Only the cowardice in the Lion knows

This ink is the doubt that grows.

Condensation of lust soaked skin

A sticky situation when

There’s no lubrication for the Tin Man.


In the pulmonary arteries

Of the Hemingway Reincarnates

Rhythmic typewriters click-

Splashing ink into nonsense.

Summerhyme in humid air

Bleeds the present into past tense

And while we all wait-

The tides will undertow us

Away with the wake.


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