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Poems by Ben Wesling
Dirty Black and Full of Spikes
Romanian Moon
A Dusty Little Town Called Nuevo Vampira
Chrome and Velvet
Gun Between my Legs
Dirty, Black and Full of Spikes
Dirty damaged and deranged
denizens we of the concrete sea
swimming hard against asphalt currents
fighting like tattooed piranha in a fishbowl
teetering on the counters edge
where we can see the carcasses
dull eyed and magnified
along the glassy rim of heaven.
Sledgehammered shrieks of silent desire
forced and flung from far off sirens
rend the night the day the evening bright
the sun in all its faded glory lisping over
the broken tooth and cracked lip of our days
spent here in this impenetrable sphere.
Green and crimson speckled faces
crane their necks and gill flared webbings
while the scales and tails flick and flex
the heady scent of briny caustic urges
mingle with the suckered tentacles of sex.
The girls in shorts are teasing us
the men in suits are breeding us
the boys in black are scheming deep
salty weapons of offshore sleep.
Take her fin and make her squeal
take his dorsal cages of delight
make of them an oceans meal
choke down the dessert even though
its dark black
and full of spikes.© Wesling, 2006
Romanian Moon
Oh my god she smiled like a cat
chiseled cheekbones and royal chin
curly black hair of a greek goddess
thin fingers of polished seduction
big silver cross around her neck
an air of aloof despair the proof
of her aristocracy in the world.
Dark castles loomed deep in her eyes
spires and turrets of black
where nameless things dwell
crouched and hidden until you ask
where she came from.
The horse drawn carriage waits outside
for us
she said
as her body drew up like a flag unfurled
in a stiff wind straight out of transylvanian crypts.
Fascination had me I must admit
so I followed her down into her lair
where I watched her conjure
dark shapes from inside of me
filling the room with the wild gloom
of shades and sudden melancholy.
Forests and lakes in moonlight
they flash by the windows of the train
the journey back in time
every man must make when he falls
madly in love with the woman in black.
I made the trip alone
barely made it back
surviving on snow covered words
of cold desire and the frozen fire
that heats from under the ice
melting the veil between the worlds
the one that keeps the hideous out
and the normal in
its knocking loud
it wants inside it needs to feed
now I understand why she waits
like a temptress
seductress
vampiress of the crimson stain
sequined dress of fate so tight
beckoning finger at her lips
body swaying like a musical morsel
that never quite satisfies
gypsy stare of polished silver
the only thing I have left
now that she has been swallowed whole
by the big silk lined cape that covers
the red and slowly rising
romanian moon.© Wesling, 2006
A Dusty Little Town Called Nuevo Vampira
She blew into town on a hot august night
suitcases melting on the back seat of her car.
Got dinner at a diner
sat in the back
so she could watch the door.
The locals gave her the eye
then went back to their fried chicken
mashed potatoes and gravy
washed down with cheap longneck beer.
The men all wore jeans and cowboy hats
the women were creased and wrinkled and worn
tough as leather left out in the desert sun
way too long.
But all in all they were simple harmless folk
not like the ones she was running from
the ones back in the city
the ones who left her for dead
in an alley late one night.
Drained dry like a tipped over coke bottle
she lay on the cracked asphalt
looking up at the fire escapes and red brick walls
until a bums peeling fingers stole her shoes.
She staggered home an empty shell
purged of her life and her petty problems
her divorce and her boring job
her even more boring boyfriend and his sports tv
her eyes now wide and seeing all as it was.
It took 3 days until she was ready to leave
gas up the car and head south
her tires hot as they rolled down the highway
towards a place she could feel with her mind.
It burned like a stick of incense
in the middle of a vast sandy expanse
scorpion tailed granite boulder blue sky
full moon coyote howl tumbleweed kind of place
far from the city of concrete steel and pain.
As the power flickered in the diner suddenly
she thought she saw a shadow sneak past the door
a shadow that cast a shadow
slinking along the counter towards her slowly.
Could have been a ghost of a prospector
an indian a tourist a german businessman.
But no it had to be one of them
green eyes of fire skin cold as ice
she had her back to the wall cross in her hand
garlic around her neck it was now or never.
Then it was gone a wisp of smoke
a faint smell in a cemetery an orchid
all rolled into one
to her quivering nostrils.
Settling back into her booth
the soft plastic giving like a sponge
exhaling into the night she relaxed at last
wondering if the sign she saw a ways back
meant anything anything at all.
It was riddled with bullet holes
pockmarked by sandstorms and a baking sun
flaking paint and rusty screws.
The words made her uneasy though
even though she couldnt quite put a finger on it
thats it the signpost up ahead
she heard a voice say inside her as the ground gave way
to red rock and red sand as far as the eye could see
you have just entered
a dusty little town
called nuevo vampira.© Wesling, 2006
The train rumbled and clattered
its way back to brooklyn
every thursday night
from her bedroom she could hear it
down below.
A schoolteacher
in the inner city
she had to be tough to survive
the crazies and the pervs.
The city moved and breathed
inside of her especially at night.
The time the vampires rose
from secret penthouses across the city
skyscraper stealth
sophisticated sex and sin
were what she felt in the presence
of those towers
the ones that hid the blood drinkers
high above the bums and the dirty streets.
She wondered if she could ever become
like them
prisoners of the night
free from all constraint
no fear of any man
implacable and radiating
sheer confidence and loyalty
to ones own kind.
Because right now
she had none.
Promised and lied to alike
she retreated inside herself
into a gothic dungeon
no one else knew was there.
It floated somewhere down
between love and lust
blurring the lines of each
making the sun hurt her eyes
and the moon call her out.
Out to celebrate
with those others
newly discovered
at parties and intimate gatherings
passwords and codes
to even get in the door
once inside a banquet of nocturnal
sensations
all geared towards a leather tight evening
that never failed to excite her.
The leather hid in her closet
hidden even from the men
she brought home occasionally
they only stayed one night
and disappeared forever.
But who would ever notice
a schoolteacher
keeps to herself
living alone by the railroad tracks
in brooklyn.
Her fetishes soon brought her near
to the nightstalkers
one midnight fate filled
her head with destinys dust.
She spilled her drink on one
she lost herself inside the green eyes
of the one who caught her wrist
pulled her close and whispered
strange word runes that
only she could hear
above the idle chatter
of the filthy rich all around.
Just before the sun came up
she watched the first train rumble by
dark metal worm of steel sinews
clattering and creaking
as it creased the dark with silver.
She knew she was different
but what the hell
she could get a night job now.
And as the sun hit the buildings downtown
elegant slim and oh so slightly decayed
she knew at once this was her last sunrise
soon she would descend
into the endless nights
her eyes would soon be reflected only by
chrome and velvet.© Wesling, 2006
Late at night the phone never rings
it sits next to my keyboard
daring me to look at it.
Loaded gun on the desk
next to me with extra clips
40 ounce king cobra malt liquor
at my lips pouring smooth.
Devil lights a joint
passes it to me hot
smoking and sweet
then hits a power chord on his guitar.
Echoes off the inside of my skull
hammer me into submission
to my power muse
the woman in red who sits
right behind me putting
those words in my mouth
my mind my fingers
only repeating what she tells me.
I watch her tight ass in the corners
of my bloodshot eyes
her thighs her belly her breasts
her face her mouth her eyes
watching me in fascination
right back.
Once she made me call an escort
for the experience.
She knew I would not buy her words
so she made me create my own
make the call make the contact
make the connection late one night.
The escort service was down in the dirty
mean and nasty side of town
but the girl was anything but.
We killed some time
up at the top of the hill
watching the rockets launch.
Blue flame far off
red flames in her eyes
reflecting mine.
Said she had a son
a cat and a burning desire
to burn the moon right out
of the sky.
Killed some more time
down in the valley shooting pool
her body just like my muse
long and lean and wide hipped
double jointed elbows
nervous habits couldnt sit still
blinking long lashes that always got me
mesmerised.
Maybe my muse picked this girl out
wouldnt put it past her.
But since I am the connection to the real
I get the lions share of life
that we share between us.
Artists who recognize that fact
go far with the knowledge
that they dont operate alone
and never have.
Back to my story
the rain began to fall
as we fell too
straight down with no warning
onto the bed.
It was all so sudden
the shaft of moonlight breaking
through the glass like a white bullet of light
hitting her in the eyes so they glowed
in the dark like violet flares
twin flames that pulled and played me
like the devils guitar
solid black with red fire
trailing up its neck
strings breaking every so often
as the devils fingers hit too hard
amps a mile high on fire blown and shredded
impossible to hear so you felt its detonation
deep in your soul which gets blacker
by the minute the more you live
and breathe and sleep and dream and go
to work and then home again every day.
Poetry of the gun sings in gunpowder blues
slugs at rest and slugs in flight
beauty and death all wrapped up
in a tight little package
like my muse that bitch
she always has the ace card up her sleeve.
She was one step ahead of me again
making me write down my fears
before they came to pass
so I could see them deal with them
before they could cripple me.
Damn I cant imagine what
hemingways muse was like
picasso mozart kerouac rembrandt
all must have been insane
if their muse was half what mine was.
Submit or die was her offer
what the hell could I do.
Its the offer no artist can refuse
when you get right down to it
so I should just get used to it.
The only thing I get nervous about
weird habit my muse has wish I knew
where it came from
makes me jittery every time
she wants me to do it.
The symbolism she is so fond of
the sheer fearless feeling I know
she is trying to elicit in me
the way sex and death go together
like rain on hot concrete
frogs on skillets
strippers sliding down their poles
tires smoking drag race midnight dare
the ninja blade you never see
the target painted on your chest
every time you step outside your door
combine all that stuff and maybe
just maybe you come close to the feeling
I get when I do her bidding and put
the goddamn
gun between my legs.© Wesling, 2006
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Ben Wesling is a poet and fiction writer living in San Diego. His work has appeared - and is upcoming - in HUNGUR Magazine. His short story, "Dirty Black and Full of Spikes" is Tales from the Moonlit Path's Featured story. Click here to read it.