Poems by John Benknockee

UNTITLED (1)

Then he said to me, them dreams will never come true—try these pleasures, this anger, this drug, this loot. Bound to salute this demon within me, I’m shackled in thought—no reasons, no faults. Yearning for that next high, that rush, looking always for what I can never supply. I think I’m in trouble. I’m falling, then I’m saved; he always has my back—I can sin all day, and murder, and rob myself—my spirit, my mind—masking out with a vengeance the moon, the day, the sun, the time.

He had my mind intertwined with his wicked state of crime—he’s my boy, my next-of-kin; he’ll be there to tell you there’s room for sin. High on destruction, high on pain, I don’t know where I am, not even my name. What about harm reduction—now what’s that? This isn’t a game; now that’s insane! You need me to endure—you need not stay pure. For within my kingdom, there’s no such thing as a cure, or promise, or strength and ambition. Give me one day and you’ll start wishing for pain, to die, to get high and comply with my demons for as long as you can stand. You need to wake up, because I’m the man! He entices me, stimulating me mentally and giving me everything that I think should be mine, but shouldn’t I be righteous sometime? Being so nice to me—can I trust him at all? I’m drugged with desire, like I’m overdosed on Tylenol. But I need him to get to that place. The Key Master can always have his place—by my side, every night. Get me high. I want to fly. To the end—but where’s that? I don’t care; I need smack. I’m in danger; I’ve lost to this demon. Now he’s the boss. I want to escape. I want to die. But do me a favor—get me high.

There’s no saving you—you’re like me, I say. Deranged, no doubt strange, with no power to maintain. You complete my life’s work—you, your people, even your man, Cain. Your mind, your soul will never remain, for your brain will never accept anything but my pain. I aim to destroy you mentally and remove you certainly from the kingdom of bliss. I pour suffering and danger down on you and you’ll assent. Are you stupid? Couldn’t you tell? I’m that demon within you. Welcome to Hell.

John Benknockee

LOST IN ME

Sick in the soul, I just don’t know how to behold the end of the world that I’ve known. Ailing of mind, in a desert wasteland called Life. I’m consumed by hostile winds cutting through my being.

Dragging my carcass through a tortured existence— spaced, alienated. Dwelling among lost and lifeless souls that soothe my hopeless heart. My self-loathing intensified, hateful and distraught feelings are constant companions. I have lost grip on reality—twisted and pulled.

I am weak, the hunted, my very existence has been raped and polluted—show me death and I’ll salute it. My days are counting down. Life drains from me as blood from a wound; I’m dying but never too soon. So much pain there, nothing to retain. I can’t let go because I need my pain…to feel and maintain, to see if I’m still alive. I need my anger by my side.

I’m growing numb. I’m seeing dark—the lights are lowering. I am in a box. Is there any of me left? Or am I near death? My thoughts are possessed by lust and sadness—doubt, anger, and rage—I’m driven into madness. I’m a pushbutton figure; I can’t regain control. The room is spinning; my despair is on patrol. I can’t move. My eyes are seeing red and my limbs are dead.

When you say H.I.V., what do that mean? Do I just lie down and die, or does death stalk me like a fiend? Who gave him the right to take away my world; am I the only one or do he put the moves on his baby girl? I can feel the beat of my heart viciously thumping through my body like a beacon in the dark. What am I going through? What’s happening to my world? Whose life am I living? I am in a whirl.

Is there’s an answer out there—does anyone know? I say, don’t hold back—let it flow! I’m in mental bondage, carrying an endless pit of disappointment on my back and instead of cutting my chains, I polish them with misguided pride and a fat sack of smack. How much easier things become, how light and heavenly I feel. With some of the most intense pleasure, is this for real, even worth my bill? With no worries, pains, suffering or regret, give me three fat blunts and my day is set. Sensations, emotions, responsibilities—all fading away, while I sit back and watch my tortured life go by, day by day. Give me a few moments, a few moments are all I need to slip a cigar through my fingers and insert the green. So high, so high I can reach the sky. But each time I fly, a part of me dies—for getting high is a chemical lie. But where’s my chance for a pleasurable piece of the American pie? It’s getting stronger, the feelings are staying longer, and I’m blinking out of existence like a candle in early morning. Laying under a grave, no longer wanting this life. But why is it so hard for me, why must I fight? When you say H.I.V., what do that mean for me now, am I worth loving still or do I pass without a sound?

Who cares for the down and out, who cares I say? Why should anyone, isn’t that the American way? Who has the right to fuck my shit up but me, who can tell me who I was ever meant to be? Who can hate me more than I hate myself? Don’t dare say you got love for a brother, because if I don’t love who I am, then I do not love anyone else!

I struggle internally to unlock the powers of joy, but the harder I fight, the deeper my void. How do I recover from a shattered state? Day by day, they say, but I can see no other way. In a dark place of utter fright I fight, while surrounded by love and still unable to see the light. I’m all alone. The dead call out to me, the dying are pushing me; my life is a blur, like my unforeseen destiny.

I can’t take it anymore; I’m about to scream—like in one of those Hollywood dramatic movie scenes: when people are getting ready to die and try to shout, fear gets the best of them and brings the inevitable end about. Oh lord, where are you? Are you within sight? My soul needs touching, my heart needs your might. I’ve held on; holding on for too long. Searching for a true path with a spirit that is only half. Incomplete, false—help me lord, for I am lost.

John Benknockee