We are the lower plane
familiar with the spacing
and organised in our own refraction

we never stopped building on good intentions
and we nail ourselves in to soak the wonders – from
the pyramids to the red haired girls
we have eaten ourselves

we have never let ourselves forget
the anthropologias crack on our shoulderbones
the void is looking back at us
and we can write histories, now

we are oscillations of string

we climb scaffolds
dance in circles
we ignore our tongues
and stretch for common ground

we are a weight on lead sheets
we are inside the box, and we observe the box.

We are watchers, and we theorize on madness
Our half-life is now art

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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