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

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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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