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.

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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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