I can’t seem to help it –

Waking up with sand, the scent

Of common sense eluding

Even my most recent dreams.

Faxed, it seems, between shores

Of sure, of certainty and carbon

Copies. Direct reflections painted

On, tattooed in vegetable flesh.


“My hat, it has three corners”.

But also a space for severed heads,

A sword, a feather, if you are

That way inclined, dear seaman.

Take the hint from Pitt Rivers, the

Shrunken face of Anthro-apologists –

Your issue catches in my throat.

The Caspian is swelling.


(William Bligh! William Bligh!

What inks brought home from mutiny!)


Skipping around my seed –

The bounty of a southern county.

Enough of this nautical menagerie,

Boy! You never slept in hammocks

And your fists are not like the

Proverbial… ah, you can’t bring

Yourself to mention it. Your pallid

Vegetarianism draws you back

To sleep

To just

To joust

To dust.

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

One response to “Polyamnesia

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