Night Visitors. Or, Death of a Famous International Playboy

Dreams are really starting to piss me off. It isn’t fair for my subconscious to vomit all sorts of memories behind my eyes, its vicious little attempts to revert me into somebody I stopped being only serve to make it harder to get out of bed, to get up and face the grey skies and pissing rain and open-plan. A quick, sad one today.

Emptying pockets on ring-marked tables

Produced a saddening pile

Of ticket stubs from seventy km

North of the Murder Mile.


Of folded Polaroid squares

Holding heavy, suspended fragrance

Of thighs in hotel rooms abroad

And slick, forbidden cadence.


The passport’s seen far better days

Dieu Et Mon Droit worn thin.

Sandblasted, deadened in Rajasthan,

Waxed smooth, strapped firmly in.


Emptying pockets with tobacco-stained hands,

Like waking from teasing memory.

Not asked for this arousal,

And never you, instead of me.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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