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Ben is a Melbourne-based writer who runs Horror, Sleaze and Trash. He loves talking shit – send him an email and tell him things you don’t want any one else to know.

I’m a World Famous Poet

Me and my girl
at the kitchen table.
In my hand is a cold tin.
In hers, a flume of pink

A girl with massive tits
and the prettiest
brown curls
you ever saw
calls me “the poet”
asks to fuck the both of us
in an orgy I couldn’t handle

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…”
There’s No Way
Sit down,

I pat at the felt seat
beside me.

Pull up your skirt.

Show me your
Amazon thighs,
for the leg show.

Spill the wine
all over the floorboards.

Don’t worry about it,
I’ll clean it up
with a second wipe
of a gym sock.

There’s no way,


that we can
I wanna keep my shirt on
just for a little while.

Until the blood in my body
warms up my skin
while it floods to the
purple tip of my dick.

My foot slips in the wine.
It’s ambient

Even if one of us vomits
there is no way we could


A dress hem creeping from her thigh
and into the warmth of her
blushing crotch. My Bow-legged Baby

Undressed at the height,
breathing white clouds of smoke,
that settle around her lips
and hang heavily
with a dissipated weight
around her nipples.

Glowing grey,
in the awkward neon
of the porch light outside.

The staunch, black, outside.

The television hums in the other room,
just like it always does.

And I yell out the wire screen door
that the next few pages are for her,
as if they have ever been anyone else’s.


© 2011 Ben John Smith