Thursday, April 14, 2011

Ben Smith

  A Review by Catfish McDaris

Horror Sleaze Trash
by Ben John Smith

Horror Sleaze Trash is beautifully done 110 page hardcover book of poems by Ben John Smith. Simply put it is a loaded bazooka that fits nicely in your hands and fires round after round, guaranteed to knock down anything that moves. Ben is from Melbourne Australia, so his writing gives an insight into his country. He works construction, drinks with his mates, is true to his woman, and likes Elvis Presley. Ben runs one of the top “anything goes” on line literary and art zones at The poems in Horror Sleaze Trash, his second hard bound collection are each a bit different examining life under a poetic microscope and exposing it in many brilliant ways. In “Chump” the poem has a poet explaining to his woman (as all poets must do at some time with their loved ones) why most of his non-writing work mates won’t buy his books, but will blow loads of cash on drink and horse races. At the end of this poem he ends up sitting in the rain with a kangaroo with a broken leg until the cops show up to shoot it. Sadness made its debut in this poem, but there are plenty of happy ones and head shakers also. Words of too much drink, old men described perfectly, vaginas, sweaty dicks, folks going to church, Henry Miller, a black fella with lice, a dude that shits like a drainpipe in a thunderstorm. Ben John Smith writes as all educated men do or as Gary Snyder said “deeducated” which is uncivilized and barbaric. He’s well read and influences of Bukowski, the Beatniks, Travis Bickle, Joseph Conrad, and Galatians from the Bible appear, but Ben’s got an original voice and shows no fear. In “Foreskin” he compares a bulldog on ice cream to sticking his dick in a beer bottle. Included are three poems titled “Shaving My Balls Pt.1, 2, 3” and they end in a query to about what to do about itching testicles. Australian English is a bit different from American English, which is refreshing and makes this book that much better. The slick cover by (ths) is the nicely shaped rear view of a near nude lady before a wall of graffiti. There’s a cool photo of Ben at end of the book standing in front of the Liberated X Bookshop and ladies, he’s easy on the eyes. I wholeheartedly recommend buying this book, you won’t be sorry.


Purchase Information:
Ben John Smith
PO Box 806
Tullamarine, 3049
ISBN 978-1-4467-1427-0


Hey Guido mate,
Ahh thats a shame about . . . 
but anyway love yr blogo
I have attached an image, if its okay let me know.
below are 4 poems from the book. Ben
Sea Shells in my Shit
It's my sister's going away party.
I eat a handful of sea shells
from a bottle on top of the toilet.
I want something to remind me of her.
I was drunk
and they were only very
but each mouthful
hurt my throat.
I swallowed them one at a time
very drunk,
half-expecting to vomit them up.
But I didn’t.
For the next few days I shit sea shells.
Thinking of her
when I stare at my turd.
spiral and round sea shells
floating in my shit,
like an island on the beach.
I sneak outside and have a cigarette.
Life always turns out
the way it should.
Hear What You Want to Hear
Deliberating another bottle
of wine
I ask her if we
can sleep in tomorrow
as late as possible.
She wakes up
from her sleep on the couch
and says,
“Somewhere over the rainbow?”
It's playing on the
I say,
“What, you mean
like the song?”
she says,
"something like that."
the bottle cracks
like a roar
of quiet
My Monroe
She doesn’t want
what she's
Doesn't want
to just stand there
and look
smoking hot.
Doesn't want to be
a wallflower.
Not just a pretty face.
She tells me this
while I sit on the couch
and sip at
another beer.
Probably the 13th
for the night.
I say,
“So you want me to
be like Bruce Willis
in Unbreakable?”
Pretending like
I'm anything more
than a bloke with a
shit head
and dreams of
It's the beer talking
and I'm being
a little too honest
about it all.
We have a big fight
she smashes a glass.
In the morning we
in a rainbow-sheeted
And I tell her
I think she
is just like Monroe.
I put my hands
into her silk
and tell her
she has a
pretty pussy.
She laughs and
tells me to write
an extremely
sad poem
and end
with those words.
She has
such a very
pretty pussy.
War Pig
War was perhaps
the best thing
to happen in this world.
It killed the falseness,
the pretence,
the immaturity
of love
in the modern sense.
In the sense without war.
It gave passion and
and shadowed all the other
of first dates and
“get me a chicken
It made
love worthwhile,
not the fickle
and intangible
show bag
it is today.
I wish war was
more plentiful.
It gave us
genuine life,
in all of its


BIO: Ben John Smith is a melbourne based dude 
who wants to break into the world of horror and porn, 
he pretends like he is a genius.   
His blog is found here -


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

U r a poet who knows when mojo ready 2 go on job o! -el deva [dave ellison]