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would you call me crazy

if i told you

i transcribed 

each of your thoughts

to my heart-

just to spend

the nights alone

pursing the answers

to quench your fears?

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1% Club Photography 

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Dear Madam,

You may not like me,
You may bitch and moan about my antics in your weekly coffee meetings with your handbag dogs and your air of authority;

“That boy Ben, 
With his arrogance, his swagger,
Who the hell does he think he is? 
And his ‘poetry’? 
Don’t even get me started on his so called ‘poetry’.
It’s disgusting and degrading… He should be ashamed of himself!”

Well as you say that.
And I whole heartedly agree with your point.
I’m currently fucking your daughter 
With a middle finger in the air waving at you.

Talk about this…

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Teuten
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I’m obnoxious & outspoken
My writing is raw & uncut
Love it or hate it
Marmite poetry motherfucker 

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She deserves a better man.
More mature I guess.

The type tired by the endless booze,
Who sticks to being tea total with the occasional bitter on the weekend.
The type to wash his hands after taking a piss,
Who’d rather sit in on a friday and watch jonathan ross,
Rather than slur curses at passers by and grope for their dolled up girlfriends walking in their wake.

Not my kind of man,
But a better man none the less.

Kind, caring and soppy.
Mature some would say.
The type I’d call a cunt.

Organised in that steady life.
The type to provide breakfast in bed, having woke before the dawn.
Who laughs when you want, and looks you in the eye when they say I love you.
That type.

Kind, caring and soppy.
Mature I would say. 
At a level where I never intend to be.

She deserves a better man.
More mature I guess.
Someone who can give her a future,
A future she wants.
A future I can’t give,
Not now, not ever…
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she spilt her secrets,
wild fantasies and those darkest dreams,
whilst i drifted away,
pulsating in the wet.
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she told me of black lingerie
pink cuffs and kisses.
what she’d do to me when we were alone
giggling in new found love
under her cream sheets.

movement as one,
vine-like in her wetness.
experimental hands
make daring tongues,
as murmurs become moans
in the quiet night of early hours.

she said all this,
as my mind made love to her body,
and the train slowly rolled into her stop,
welcome to …
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are we,

with all our blessed mistakes 

the representatives of this gaunt generation?

the interviewees 

in a satirical comedy.

question time on the 1% club.

where haggard eyes

lay blame on the infected adolescent,

rampaging dreary, dawn streets

with riotous yells and drunken antics.

and so look to us for solutions,

the 1%ers,

the broken mentalities to the moulded etiquettes of everyday britain.

the guilt-ridden question of why?

repetitive and solemn.

why do we do it to ourselves?

why do we do it to them?

we,

the unsuspecting counsellors 

to a generation of debauchery.

do they not see,

we’re no more the voice of the defiant minds breaking banality,

than they are the soldiers defending the norm?

we are all just sheep.

a mass movement under the critical eye,

the self conscious plea to unite,

the dangerous intoxication that is peer pressure.

we do,

because it is done.

nothing more… nothing less

we drink because it is the norm,

the one talentless skill acquirable to move with the mass,

to bond with the mutinous,

to join forces in the marching body.

we all fall on sharpened blades of self-esteem.

but as one,

we support each other.

we bond through the liquid poison degrading our souls.

and we fucking love it.

the one legitimate vice,

where we can escape the monotonous norm

revolving the daily cycle of the seniority.

your daily cycle,

of pressurized stress

plaguing your health.

ironic really.

we destroy our well being through frantic binges.

you destroy yours on the daily commute in stuffy trams,

the frenzied blood bath in the fight for money.

the result of a lifetime of gluttony;

junk food, dirty cash,

and the catalyst of a worked up pressure to heap the millions.

why do you do it?

because it is the norm.

you do,

because it is done.

nothing more, nothing less.

we’re all just victims to each other.

fatalities lost in the search for wealth,

casualties to the liquid poison tempting the youth.

we’re all just victims to each other.

self-conscious souls who just want to fit in with the norm.

here’s to the 1% club

the freedom fighters of thought.

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it was always you


though i acted all bravado

flirted with the thoughts of powdered girls

fed off their childish giggles 

and the flutter of fake lashes


it was always you

who held my heart…


but once more 

the hourglass slowly dribbles it’s sand

and time claims another foolish victim.

i’ve lost you to another

a better man 

no doubt 


but i still long,

long for those small hands to live in mine

long for you to lie between the wings of my shoulder blades asleep

long for you to look me in the eyes and whisper the words ‘i love you’


it was always you

it’s still you


and maybe one day

we’ll fall into the subconscious refuge of slumber

curled as one 

beneath my cold sheets warming to your touch.