can't see the wood for the trees

Also known as Benjamin Campbell - 20 years old, Yorkshire born and bred, somehow ended up in Oxford. Writes a ridiculous amount of prose and poetry and some of it is almost good. Lives in this cluttered tumblr page with a variety of words, pictures and sounds, and occasionally makes sense of it all. Seeking like-minded individuals to add and remove clutter and perhaps stay for tea. Asks are always welcome. I also write poetry on request for free! Creative Commons Licence
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notanotherhipsterbookwhore said: You seem as a really cute guy and I really like your poetry! <3

Hey thanks, I’m glad you like it! :)

12/9/2014 - Monoski
This sentence only has a single ski in it, for the purpose of the prompt. Against claims that I’m being too metaphysical, I can only say if you’re going to go beyond, you might as well go all the way. ———————————————————— A stranger thing you’ll never see than men who use a monoski. These skiers want to test themselves on snowy hills and icy shelves on a single ski, and not again - for as the ski has a single lip, they only survive a single trip. ———————————————————— How odd that it doesn’t seem odd to make up words that make perfect sense, like dragoness or monoski, prefixes and suffixes in strange places that nevertheless bring their own meaning - if only we could learn to do the same.
                    - Benjamin Campbell
the-art-of-misdirection:

Stravinsky’s Final Rite
Garrulous, the sliced warmth of cellosbellows—like a water fountain, coined misericorde-turned-guillotine in swift decapitation as the gallant removeshis helm, recapitulating in coda, flooding
broken light betweenRubicon &amp; Paradise: fire with ice, earth &amp; airgreeting among another’s eyes, like two stars gazingacross the rift of dead space,
enunciated galaxy—as if princes &amp; damsels spythroughout the empty kingdoms they govern through bloodline,catching each other in eternal glance. God had no ideawhen he gave us mirrors. Cosmic lilies
titled Cercles mystérieux des adolescentes vibratedown the vineyard of aqua vitae, dragginglethargic springtime among pre-creation, procreatingempty livingness. Ah, but a few
more measures to dance into the Sacrificial—the last Rite—volcanic as pizzicato froth,bath of wines, the punctuation of war,Melankoli &amp; Ausencion rhyme the same idea:
betwixt the strangle of an octopus sleeper submissionbeneath the schism of night &amp; morningbefore the Fall of Man, even deeper thanbergotten regret as peacocks dance the Gorgon’s undead curse.
-RYArtwork:

ResilienceSegolene Haehnsen Kan, FrenchAcrylic on canvas

the-art-of-misdirection:

Stravinsky’s Final Rite

Garrulous, the sliced warmth of cellos
bellows—like a water fountain, coined misericorde-
turned-guillotine in swift decapitation as the gallant removes
his helm, recapitulating in coda, flooding

broken light between
Rubicon & Paradise: fire with ice, earth & air
greeting among another’s eyes, like two stars gazing
across the rift of dead space,

enunciated galaxy—as if princes & damsels spy
throughout the empty kingdoms they govern through bloodline,
catching each other in eternal glance. God had no idea
when he gave us mirrors. Cosmic lilies

titled Cercles mystérieux des adolescentes vibrate
down the vineyard of aqua vitae, dragging
lethargic springtime among pre-creation, procreating
empty livingness. Ah, but a few

more measures to dance into the Sacrificial—
the last Rite—volcanic as pizzicato froth,
bath of wines, the punctuation of war,
Melankoli & Ausencion rhyme the same idea:

betwixt the strangle of an octopus sleeper submission
beneath the schism of night & morning
before the Fall of Man, even deeper than
bergotten regret as peacocks dance the Gorgon’s undead curse.

-RY



Artwork:

Resilience
Segolene Haehnsen Kan, French
Acrylic on canvas

11/9/2014 - Panic
Perhaps you’re a spy. A stalker? But no. No, you’re too sly. I’m scared of you all the same. Can’t you leave me alone? ———————————————————— I’m surrounded by the familiar -  this hallway, lined with aging photographs, has been the same for as long as I can remember - but beyond the front door I do not know what to expect. As my hand reaches for the handle, my mind is gripped by fear, and my heart starts to pound, a rising panic that strikes until I can’t  breathe. ———————————————————— These poems are a traveller’s guide to the galaxy, and like the book of Adams’ mind, their moral is  “Don’t Panic.”
                    - Benjamin Campbell

dvrkqueen said: You are one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever gotten the privilege to see.

Woah, I don’t even know what to say…thanks :)