A Daily Standard

For the second hand love of Columbine,

He split his head in two, they said.

The print left prints on fingertips

When hands that scratched for truth

(Inky, demised, fantastic blues)

Got stuck between page three and ‘done’.

 

For the hand-me-downs of the Empress,

He stamped his feet into his knees,

The snap-flashes almost ate him up

While he quivered on the kitchen tiles.

Nobody knows who called the men

But their coats came flooding through some door

 

Before you could even see the signs

That something was knocked askew;

Legs, scissor-fixes with retardant wire,

Eyes like an asbestos mask, they

Copied a million, front page stuff,

He was flogged in the street by a fool.

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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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