Ores I

We bore holes in us, as if attrition comes naturally.

Water does what water does, slowly builds more layers

while time comes on and throws us under inch-

thick crusts of residue. Slapped on fast, this way and

that, varnish up our weakest points so we can’t see

despite being flush against the panes – we stay

sitting, smoking slowly, refining the crudeness

of our gestures until we pump ourselves outside

                                     –

even then, nothing can remind you of the day

when our selves glinted, shiny new:

hips crackle and spit, and something silver corrugates lips

with not quite words slagged out in heaps.

                                    –

We grow inside houses, this much is clear, yet

our hair stays flat, we count the days in single strands.

Reduced to a specimen, a set of samples:

hours kept stock in breathing bowls, broken bones

pile up with kisses, the taste of iron.

My memories clamber under skies,

fuming full of smashed clay pots and the days

when our mouths moved, and music came

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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

2 responses to “Ores I

  • bonniemcclellan

    A truly fine poem, the last image of the second stanza is particularly striking, especially ‘not quite words slagged out in heaps’. The second poem (Ores II) seems a bit spent or at least less charged in comparison.
    Thanks for putting it out there, as ever.
    b

  • adeeyoyo

    I love all the ‘disjointed’ (to me?) images here, Benjamin. Beautiful writing… dreamlike quality that you’re so good at… are we made of clay because, then, the poem makes sense. Very, very clever – love it!

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