PoetrySz - Benson

bio:

Dave Benson, NJ USA. 28, soon to be student again. I'd just like to say that mental illness is a way of life...no, seriously...anxiety, with occasionally severe panic...depression that cycles between minor and major...anyway. I've never been comfortable with the idea of being mentally ill, although i know i am. I guess the question is, especially in the arts, where do you draw the line, and why do you feel the need to draw it?

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Breathing breaks the distance-

my grasp of the evening,
the shape of my blood-

the fall of light.

The window is open
to gulls crying the
falling light.

Soon
it will be dark,
knit with eyes;

an autumnal tangle
of whispers

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Spit. Look in the mirror.
You are the last leper of Saint-Lazare.
You are time slowing down, lonely as falling snow.
Look into these eyes.
Figure you're in there.
Spooky.
Kiss of the waters.
Close your eyes.
Remember running barefoot through the snow.
Relax. God kisses your feet.
The trees get more, your breath explodes
into clouds of vapor that twitch and strive
like animals rejecting sleep.
Tonight you marry the moon.
Your progress is blind, your eyes are closed,
you crash through the underbrush. Your eyes are
closed.
You forget to breathe for two full minutes.
Saplings beat at your body like truncheons. You know the truth.
You're on your back, laughing. Blood bubbles in your throat,
the taste of iron, spluttering helplessly, your lips a garish red no
one can see.
Close the scene. Spit.

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The sun is the song of medieval girls,

it is hidden behind clouds.

It is luck in the fireplace,
glowing, hammering dulcimer
into atmosphere.

We kiss her, though she dies.

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