Sex Rhyme

The cracks on my ceiling seem vast to her.
My imagination died with a man on a tree,
A battle, breathless fantasy, panning realization,
Like the day I discovered Bardot was a nazi.

Oh, we acted the parts!
A lower art, a mime, or less yet. But
I’d rather there was silence than the crushing reassurance
Of contentment and the little death of Marie Antoinette.

A rehearsed shudder, a plucked Hungarian –
My sheets stay achingly white
And deep inside, a teenager dies
With shame at the loss of the point of the night

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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