3 poems by Ben John Smith

The 6 year old poet.

My wife

tells her school

we will be
going on a Honeymoon
next year.

One child asks;

“What’s a honeymoon?”

Another slaps
his arm,

He makes wild eyes



“you idiot!

It’s when you
Eat honey under the moon”

These kids

know much more

about the
importance of

i can ever hope

The Unconsoled

When I lived in London on top of a pub,
a man killed himself in the bar beside me.

He left a stack of books behind
that my friend Benjamin Horton
let me scavenge.

I picked one.
It was the only profound moment in my life.
I dot believe in God
or fate
or meaning

but this book meant something to me
and I knew it came to me through this sad

and dead mans box of books
for a reason.

It’s why I became a writer.
Even if im a bad one.
Them wounds we chase,
they haunt us,
like a man i never met
haunts me.

Lion Sheep

A dude from a wanky

hipster magazine

tried to show me the town.

Tried to pay

for my vodka

with a flower.

Took me to a band who

made fun of us

in the dressing room.

He was photographing them

Outside a woman

tripping on ice

had taken all her clothes off

She was screaming at the police.

I said

“this is where the art is”

He wouldn’t take her photo;

because her friend was yelling at him;

pointing her finger.

He was afraid of her and the police.

I sent him a message asking

him to fuck me.

He said no.

I knew we would never be friends again.


Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

4 thoughts on “3 poems by Ben John Smith”

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