walk

I like to think that somewhere priests still finger their collars
while choking on long necked opium pipes – but a few words
from you remind me of nothing but the past ten minutes

when I saw a skinless man beat a whore to the ground
and caskets spin around green eyes, not seeing me reaching
like a hundred stags circling in the dust –

lowering their heads to the leaves, and pushing
not-quite-ivory grovels the soil and I can’t help but wonder
what you would do to your arms and me

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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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