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Benjamin Smith

Kelpie Sighting in West Yorkshire, 2013

The Kelpie visited, forecast disaster;
planted a seahorse in every photograph

that now lays discarded
throughout this submerged labyrinth.

The moon is a sliver of nickel
glinting on the surface

of the lake that's swallowing the living room.
The walls are secreting waterfalls.

Deep in the dank, carpet-moss thicket
mercury centipedes

scuttle with the silverfish
as mould blots blossom on clothing

like grey-green anemones.
There is mildew in the pantry

jewellery drowning in slurry in the
en-suite bedroom, the bathroom

is a pond scum swamp-land.
She has left us living in ruins stained

the colour of olives; dingy green-black.
Lingering odour of sewage

in the kitchen. The hallways are mud squelched.
The library's alive with fungus.

This whole house is wrung out
like a dead, drowned cat.

Chupacabra Sighting.

I saw the devil bird, last week,
vampiring livestock in
next door's garden.

It trespassed the chicken coup,
drained the inhabitants and
discarded the carcasses

like burnt out embers;
rag-doll trophies of it's
raging savageness.

It's face was a sucker-hole
stuffed full of fangs.
It's skin was scuffed up like

a worn leather jacket.
It stalked forth on hind legs
easy prey the goat's pen

its eyes fire red in the pitch.
Then came the crash of
next door's shotgun

and the creature shrieked the full
moon before scurrying off
back into the darkness.


I got home late.
The electrics were out.
I live alone.
The living room was caked
in muddy footprints,
the chairs were facing
inwards in a circle,
candlesticks were placed on
the mantelpiece and shelves.
As I fled to the staircase
I felt the drag
of tight packed bodies
pulling me back with
groping hands, but
the living room was empty.
I blacked out.
I woke up to chanting
panting from mouths that
glimmered in the gloaming;
they kept repeating my name
over and over
like some kind of mantra
and stamping their feet like
indigenous drums as
their faces filled in in the darkness.
I faded
as they filled,
like a memory.

Black Magic.

The night hours are mine

Hunched up reading post-art witch literature
The night hours with wine

Red and white, like brake lights,
And blue slick smoke

Sliding from cigarettes

In cellar damp language, I get lost
I get open to ideas such as dreaming

➥ Bio