here are the memories of before i was born

There was something funereal about those days – despite
Running in the rain and painting hair down our streaming faces there
Was a moment of fearfulness as I coiled around you remembering
Flower gardens of the day after, the heads removed like
Traitors at this city’s gate and we watched the blood of birds wrack itself
Down the cathedral steps as strapped our skin to the cathedral doors and
Talked of madness over and over and it seems I’ve seen your face before
Frozen in celluloid, emerging on paving slabs, born on the backs of moths and
I couldn’t see it when lightening split the sky and we shook on the floor
And the floor was shaking too but then
Something changed and I don’t care what Berne would have said for this
This was my childhood, right here
Death on the tracks –
Again and
Again, you were there, and I haven’t even thought
About stopping running since.

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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