Shit Biology Lesson

My hands are wrapped in
Newspaper cuttings
From when I left England.
Dipped in iodine weekly, yellowed,
Ink still runs across my wrists;
But not so often, now.

My skin is
A thousand million criss-crossed threads
Keeping whatever is left
Of the younger me inside,
An oversized sack for a single seed.
It splits to reveal

A pile of ordinary bones,
Sinew stretches, snaps and
Curls around a mess of meat,
Wetly waiting, swinging from
The hooks that began to drag
In nineteen eighty-six.

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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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