Last night: visited again.

This time by two of them;

First, a pure-blood Magyar,

Black hair and corseted spine,

Mismatched eyes and lines

Of lace and ringed wood.


The second, pagan and nomadic,

Tattooed and haunted

Pipe smoke curling up thighs

Adorned with garter belts made

From pieces of woodland



The first promised light;

Bound wrists and quartz beads

Between breasts, my inspection

May pull me somewhere new

As warm, white hands might sweet away

The dust, the mists of my descent.


The second seemed to taste for harm;

Tiny scratches, horseback brass

Like little crucifixes and Ash trees,

Saplings lash and leave their prints,

“Make me a Punch for one night only

And let my lips touch soil.”


And these women raised the union flag

And writhed around my hands.

Tried to prick me into life

And collapsed, astonished and amazed

At their failure to raise a smile;

Astonished that I didn’t give a damn.

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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