What Lies Within
the Record Sleeve

The Hillside Hospital sits slightly on edge
Ready to dispatch
Ambulances to abandoned house parties
Where the liquor has been drained
Along with the blood in the swimming pool
Make out shapes of fairy-tale castles and wild animals
In the drifting crimson clouds
But who really cares?
All the girls were made of celluloid
And the boys of jackhammers and the reincarnated spirits
Of clans of cavemen
Plus the music really sucked anyway
Can't you feel the not-so-old ghosts drift alongside
As you scuff your sneakers along the sidewalk
Past the wreckages of burnt-out mini vans
Dotted with the skeletons of discarded dead leaves
And rusted poles wearing crooked name tags
That won't let us forget
But not quite remember
Please say a prayer on a lonely attic light
That casts a soft glow over the front yard
Across the street
For the lving souls of the dead
And the dead ones of the living
Spending more and more time
In that damp and darkened basement
Wearing a thicker groove In your dead brothers vinyl
Sitting on the threadbare carpet
Inhaling his favorite brand of cigarettes
And wearing his cobwebbed tee-shirts
That musty clove scent is the smell of home
And sometimes you swear you can hear him singing along

Benjamin Blake

If you have any comments on this poem, Benjamin Blake would be pleased to hear from you.