Works by Ben Balazs

The view of blue does quite protrude. My vision shakes at pristine lake. My eyes, maybe blind, do sense. That what I see does steer from me. --- Wading and shaping the way that I'm gazing. To see is to believe but is green with grief. As it's far, no car could reach that star. As its clean serene scene looks back at me. --- Deadpan face, the same place, giving chase. But it's my own, my ears, my nose, my clone. Far from near, not here, unclear. Falling to the sky, my my, where am I? Did I land, can I stand, am I stranded? Am I lost, was I found, still abandoned? --- Far from shore, perhaps the core, there's so much more. Swim deeper, body sleeker, water shimmer. There to look, a candid crook, within that nook. Watching close for one more dose of comatose. Lost in waves, a darker cave, to whom I gave, The view of blue that quite protrudes, That shakes and makes my pristine lake.

Soaking it in, the deep crimson reds. Soaking in salt and dust and grime. He fell from there, he fell from high. There he lay with a lowered head. There he held against his flesh, The poised and sopping sheet so clean, Shriveling at the bone so lean, Shying from the wound so fresh. Down below in flattened brush, Where ants and molecules do crawl. Down where writhing roots do call. Say to him, “Don’t cry, hush hush." And so his tears will fall, some fast, Upon the lip, looks so redeemed. So sweet but once, now ripping seams. Shreds are slipping into the cracks. To patch, to mend, to hold afloat, That which leaks and pours and drowns This man in pools of his own shame, Below this tree, this place remote. He tries to climb back up again, He bleeds and cries and sweats some more. But it soaks, it soaks, it soaks that in. He falls, and falls, and falls again.