the filth

Outside the skin, a wishful splitting:
now, part of me longs for Charleville
where stocking’d legs would run
like grape juices trimming me down
with the scent of bread-crust and

I’d ruin them, bifurcating skin as all
the fruits of an early autumn. A hive
overflowing with swollen behinds, humming
with their useless barbs. I saw the queen
and slashed her hexagonal garters and

sideways eyes bear softer cloth as
we read again these truncated flowers,
lost in a litany of spectral issue
dripping from your chin. We look up,
and somewhere, a child.

and suddenly, we are old.

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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