benjaminwilding

[benjaminwilding]

London Anti-Trump March 4th February

[benjaminwilding]

London Anti-Trump Protest

[benjaminwilding]

Calais Jungle - Southern Evictions

[benjaminwilding]

Calais Jungle Life/ Baloo’s Youth Centre 

[benjaminwilding]

Calais Jungle Life/ Baloo’s Youth Centre 

[benjaminwilding]

Calais Jungle Life/ Baloo’s Youth Centre

[benjaminwilding]

wandering amongst the stars

it’s cruel of me to think of death’s cripple hand grasping for you. each day getting perilously close, until finally, i’ll be standing alone looking for you amongst the stars. you always told me to look to the skies... when i felt lonely and scared to wander amidst the heavens, and to know that they were the same ones you too were wandering. but lately, the stars have started to wane. that purple haze which has engulfed our city has taken my strength; my last defence, leaving me a darkness- an unbearable darkness that has flooded my heart, washing away the one security you gave me. -- to know that with each closing dusk you fall further and further into the mist your mind has created. the mist of worry, the mist of confusion, of fear and anxiety; the mist of poison that life has so cruelly inflicted upon your fragile state. the mist that breaks my heart with each time you call me ‘mike’. the mist that requires me to hold your hand in mine, smile with hidden tears and to promise you that everything will be alright. -- but it’s not mike, my dear, i’m ben. though you can not, i still reminisce beneath that purple sky and recount our memories as far back as a child can remember. and the stories- your stories; the wartime stories, the acting stories, the thousands of stories that i made you repeat again and again, until i could recite them for you when you could no longer. you’d tell me   of german bombers storming over the cornish coast,   as you dove for cover amidst the raining bombs of the   third reich and the bramble bushes of fowey harbor. of   how you fell in love,   mad, wartime love of heros and heroines.   the love of passion and desperation,   and how he died whilst fighting for his country and his woman over in france. and how you’d talk of your plays;   reenact the shakespearean tragedies   and the bloody hands of lady macbeth;   whilst your eyes danced and sparkled   and you relived the thunder of the stamping feet and the pleas for the encore. oh how i’d give the world to relive those memories- walk with you through time; see all that you’ve seen, and do all that you have done: hide with you beneath the nettles and the falling fire of germany, scream your name amongst the cheering crowds and red closing curtains, or just be the one to wipe the tears away from your cheek when he didn’t come back. you are my world, my dear. and as the sky wanes, and the stars pulse softer and softer- i can’t help but feel scared. -- but i am scared, and though this you will never know, i watch you with the lost eyes of a child; as you sit-   on the corner of your bed,   tugging at your fingers in frustration   until the dried flakes float to the ground,   reading, reading and rereading that diary   that you’ve creased in worry,   searching in vain for that something that was never there. but as i watch i will hold your hand. as i watch i will read with you. and as i watch i will search for that something. and each night,   as you softly sleep to face another dawn,   and the tears take their daily toll;   i will look to the skies   knowing that no matter what   that’s where you’ll be- wandering amongst the stars.

[benjaminwilding]

the midnight rebellion/ the binge generation

‘if the government wants to live on a war economy i guess we can give them a war...’                                                                  d.a. levy for jack I. they coined us the ‘binge’ as hunke did ‘beat’ these conservative old fools-        told us to SORT IT OUT        we were the ones fuckin with their economy, the country’s tax and all the other tiresome sorts:        the NHS all exhausted and red-eyed,        the increase in drunken charges- GBH and petty larceny        depleting this police force of ‘ours’, all agitated and menacing post-riots when london burnt bright on that lonely night. expressed their concern for the VICTIMS, the victims of this revolt:        the soft crumpled virgins in dark corners, sick stained and broken, weeping for home and  their overprotective mothers with their soft lullabies and goodnight kisses.        the dawn-walking commuters sidestepping soiled streets, smashed bottles and lamb doner: the remnants of us, our antics, and the infestation we breed. WE       britain’s vermin       the delinquents       the degenerates       the drunks       the dope fiends       the insubordinate little shits who won’t do what we’re told when we’re told but LAUGH LAUGH and sing obscenities down their streets       FUCK CUNT MOTHERFUCKING WANKERS huuck and spit on their doorsteps, smear **** on their windows, sweet-talk their drunken daughters into love drunks     and fuck them till the sun comes up-     the drunken stallion loving     the kind which makes a man look good/     LOOK GREAT and then LAUGH some more... LIVE for the world to denounce LIVE for the elite to condemn LIVE without conscious thought     of tomorrow     of consequence     of what they’ll do when they wake     but LIVE FOR THE MIDNIGHT REBELLION II. we are DETROIT RED’S SOUL      angry and explosive/ ready and waiting. we are D.A. LEVY’S LAST WORDS      aggravated and alone/ surrounded by stupidity. we are KEROUAC’S MORIARTY      stumbling mavericks/ in pursuit of the pleasure. we are CAMUS’ L’ETRANGER      solitary existentialists/ victims to the norm. we are THE WORDS OF THE RABID DOGS      BUKOWSKI, KAUFMAN, GINSBERG,      MILLER, FANTE, AMIS, MICHELINE. we are THE RENEGADES TO THE AUTHORITARIAN RULE      throwing the BOHEMIAN SALUTE      the middle finger pointed proudly      the big FUCK YOU to the system,       FUCK YOU to the bygone etiquettes       FUCK YOU to the chains of conformism       FUCK YOU to the suit-wearing slave owners of cold war custom we are the voice of the new dawn      age is our ally      liberalism our tool     WE ARE THE WORDS OF THE RABID DOGS INFECTIOUS AND OH-SO HUNGRY      d.a.levy...                  kerouac...                              camus...                                       bukowski...                                                      kaufman...                                                                    ginsberg...                                                                                   miller...                                                                                                fante...                                                                                                           amis...                                                                                                                       III. the water cannons are ready- vanguard’s the fucking roman tortoise step to step/ arm to arm/ riot shields & truncheons- the horses are at a gallop.     we will be crushed/     we will be hurt/     we will die/ like IAN TOMLINSON     and they will be forgotten/     they will be forgiven/     they will be let free to kill again. but we have the words of the LITERARY GODS     the BBC can’t censor this propaganda. we fight the war/ your children are our proxy     as they harmonize our obscenities and call you out     name     by     name. AND WE WILL WIN     because we are the next generation/     the dawn/ your coined ‘binge’ revolt/ and as you lie decrepit and incontinent in your bed     we will dance                                  the                                   MIDNIGHT REBELLION.

[benjaminwilding]

the painting

it’s funny, this view could well be an oil painting. the trees softly drooping, like watered down ink on a fresh canvas. and us, you & me, intertwined in deep kiss... the type of painting you’d see in the uffizi or louvre, or any of those galleries abroad, the ones you don’t want to see but feel you must just to say you’ve seen it... well, if de goya or constable, or any of those famous artists were here i’m sure they’d paint this frame; just you & me, and our watered down trees.

[benjaminwilding]

i’ll give you the world and more...

‘a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.’

- oscar wilde

do you, as i, think outside this sheltered box this concrete jungle of cold-water flats and red throbbing neon lights where the silver peppered sky lies behind the purple drum of haze and eternal dreams hide forgotten in lonely hearts do you, as i, question the etiquettes of tarmac britain the self-obsessed scowls of commuting subterranean london the revolving stress that is money and in turn do you want out the breath of liberation from azure skies and the gold fire of rolling savannahs upon distant horizons do you, as i, wish for the return of romance the black and white longing that plagues bogart, the deep, lingering kiss that moves tara do you too, imagine long autumn cycle rides through the mossy suburban, as the red and gold leaves dance and glitter amongst the wind do you, as i, want to conquer the world discover the blue lagoons of sleeping trinidad and the snow-capped peaks of ancient tibet tread new sandy dawn paths on forgotten beaches as dreams come true under sun kissed skies do you too, want to stand on the edge of the globe and still want more of heaven’s inky infinity do you, as i, dream of endless dreams? if so, take my hand, and i’ll give you the world and more... 

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[benjaminwilding]

it’s awkward now

it’s awkward now looking back on what was- we were just   a bunch of rich kids;   an incestuous group   of bubble-born- silver-spoon fed   teenagers- sharing a shag   as the girls blew   just as much as we smoked. the girls-   skirts hitched up to their snatch   thick gloop of cum drip, drip, dripping   down gaunt thighs-   perfecting their cumshot   sound of ‘mmmm’ and ‘ohhhh’   riding the cock of one little cockerel   after the next-   knees cut and grazed   from too much giving   of slurping virginal head-   unsure of satisfaction and of use of teeth-   practicing to make perfection under   the rhythmic hand of the hairless-crotch   youths in bushy park. and if not sluttish   then paralytic- alcopop drowned   daughters of the binge-drinking cult-   vomiting the radiant blue and pink   elixir of light- dissolving wholesome   kidneys and livers and minds   to the black of the unconscious-   as thick black mascara dribbles down   chalk-white faces- rosy red lips   spunk stained and sick stained   drool- rancid, acidic stink from   empty stomachs and daddy’s bubbly. and the boys   of puffed-up importance-   finger-licking the pound,   fabricating wet fantasies   of clunge and cock- milf   and daughter- prick in arse-   seducing sheltered minds   as naive innocents tug   flabby flesh back and forth-   up and down, sweaty-handed,   frantic for those crusty-cum sprays-   shooting the thick white semen   from untouched pricks- unknown   shafts of pink, one-eyed tension   pulsating in momentary bliss... and if not   wankers wanking to reproduced   porn then   meow meow kittens of today-   ket heads and coke fiends   with rolling eyes and stone cold   stares- shaking feverish puffy white skin-   caked lips and bleeding nostrils- burning   throats and racing hearts-   slaves to the white, the pink and the yellow,   the powder and the crystals, the cut dope   of dying souls who drop for the light   to dance in the dark-   the addicts made from Mummy’s money-   the offhand notes of purple passed around   because money is what is here...   money in abundance to feed the fever-   money- a bargaining tool to reign control   over a sixteen year old son who rejects this   materialistic contract pledged by the parents   and so runs with the night... it’s awkward now looking back on what was- we were just   a bunch of rich kids;   an incestuous group   of bubble-born- silver-spoon fed   teenagers- sharing a shag   as the girls blew   just as much as we smoked- but they still blow-   still suck and swallow-   with the slurping sounds   of an amateur. and the boys still drop-   still bomb and snort   crystalized ecstasy   to run the neon lights. but me-   the alcohol got me-   as i’m left shitting red-   watching from quiet corners   of smoke and corny pick up lines   these girls and boys stumbling-   fornicating- living the awkward life   that once was-   and still really is.

[benjaminwilding]

Sri Lanka 

[benjaminwilding]

Cuba

[benjaminwilding]

Ethiopia 

[benjaminwilding]

[benjaminwilding]

it’s hard not to reminisce when the rain patters so gently.

[benjaminwilding]

you’re all the more beautiful in the morning. through dusty eyes i see an angel.