Westy bar

by Ben Smith

No one likes the juke box

and any time it's on

the locals ask to have

it shut off.

Every one drinks alone

but in company

and quietly

sip at their beer

with the thunder

of loneliness.

Every time the door opens

people snap their heads

and look to see if it might

be some one who they

know and will break them

from the annoying and

tedious conversation

they are having with people

they hate.

The old dudes that read from

glasses

and

they

have grey hair.

Putting 10 buck bets on every race.

Any thing to elude them from

the outside

and make belive

that it's okay to be this

old and

drunk and

lonely

and un afraid

of death

or something

like it.

“Cerack”

by Ben Smith

The first one opens
Like a stolen child.
Pop, pop, pop.

I say if
I get too drunk to fuck
Tonight
Can you ring me
tomorrow
and
masturbate
with the phone near
your split.

She laughs.

Rubs the side
of my face.

Calls me crazy.

My
girl is a fucking
Social worker.

“believe me”

by Ben Smith

You don’t know
What it's like
To be drunk
At night

Alone and twisting
Your body
Into the
Strangest
Positions.

Face all pressed
Up and weird

Bent wristed
Like a dinosaur.

an
Empty
Three ringed
Six pack
On the floor.

The blues
In the
Back ground

my mum
And dad
Worrying about me
In the bed
With the sleepless
Nights.

I feel bad
But id feel
Worse knowing
I never
Had a
Crack.

“Writers Block”

by Ben Smith

I wrote a book of poems
When i was 15.

Full of pre-pubescent
bullshit
And the bitter
Whinings of a
Middle class
White
Suburban
Ass-hole.


Then i
Feel in love with an Asian
Girl who had a prostitute
As a mother.

We smoked dope
In her lounge and i
Asked to fuck her
But ended up
Laying with her
Sister on the floor
For a few days
With out touching
Cause she was to young
To have any hair on her
Vagina.

We laid and
Listened to
Cold chisel
While people banged
In rooms around
The empty house
And avoided
our parents
By loosing our phones.

I realised then
that love was
Something that
Had to be mutual

And i
Gave up writing not long
After that.

spent many years
afterwards
Getting drunk
And wandering the streets.

Chasing abandon
With fists of
Cotton wool.

Hiding from cops
And setting bins alight
With the other local
Kids in the
Neighbourhood.

I started writing again
When i met another
Woman who
Could deal with me

And now i pitter patter
Away at the keys
On the Carona
And wait for the day
To come when

All the words dry up
And i can go back
To the streets
Like every other
White
Middle class
Ass-hole
Who gave up when they
Finally understood
That love
Was never
Meant
To be something
You can do
By yourself.

The streets.

The Streets
Are calling
Again.


*Ben's blog