The website of writer and poet Daniel Bennett
After Frankie died, his shack in the woods became a sort of shrine. People travelled from all over the country to visit this place in the mountains to the south of our country, where he’d seen out the last of his days. Students and children camped outside on the grass, sleeping under light blankets, eating … Continue reading Frankie
One day, my neighbours were gone. I returned to home to find their flat empty. My wife saw them leave. She called to tell me that a van had parked up outside, that our neighbours had spent the whole evening moving box after box downstairs. I asked if she had seen any clue to the kind … Continue reading Boxes and Boxes
‘At first, it seemed to us that there was no single portion of the surrounding shore which was not hidden beneath the masses of the hideous lichen; yet, in this, I found we were mistaken; for somewhat later, coasting along the shore at little distance, we descried a smooth white patch of what appeared to … Continue reading Greyness
The diary lay blank. A summer job fell through. The engine in my head ran wild, chopping up clay, foliage, nudging farm machineryto roll loose across the landscape down into the valley between the old hills.The pool of mud was meat under moonlight. Someone lit fireworks in a darkened annex.The hooded man offered a long-toothed smile. These things … Continue reading from ‘At The Frontier’
‘...I can’t conceive a greater loneliness in a desert at midnight than there is there at midday. It is like a city of the dead; the streets are glaring and desolate, and as you pass it suddenly strikes you that this too is a part of London.’ The Inmost Light, Arthur Machen
‘“I have always been rather fond of going over empty houses, with the nails sticking in the walls, and the dust thick upon the window-sills. But I didn’t enjoy going over Number 20 Paul Street. I had hardly put my foot inside the passage before I noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the air of … Continue reading Empty House
‘A hundred feet above the roof of the mesa, they hung like the twisted pillows of a sleepless giant. Columns of turbulent air moved within the clouds, boiling upwards to the anvil heads like liquid in a cauldron. These were not the placid, fair-weather cumulus of Coral D, but storm-nimbus, unstable masses of overheated air … Continue reading Overheated Air
The sweet trace of fodderon the breeze, the acidof spilled cider. Occasional carstearing up the air, like the invitesnone of us had received.I don’t even remember a house.What signal set us heading outto ooze like summer starlingsfeeding on insects in the sky? Read more at The Poetry Village
The river is high these early hours, a fine mist reminding us of the Ghost. Someone coughs inside a distant cell, someone chants matins, somewherea renegade brother brews beer.Reports of plague illuminate our books,while the sandstone walls weep like open wounds. Young friars play football amongst bean canesand wild garlic, daydream of sunon white fences, earthly mores. Read more on Allegro … Continue reading The Monks
‘Nikolay Ivanovich Stupin lives in our house. He has a theory that everything is smoke. But in my view not everything is smoke. Maybe even there’s no smoke at all. Maybe there’s really nothing. There’s one category only. Or maybe there’s no category at all. It’s hard to say.’ On Phenomena and Existences, Daniil Kharms
Absence Club 