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

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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