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Last Arpeggios May 2017
There’s sadness in that step
and fear in that breath
but this smile is fixed
over clenched teeth, containing
rusted rumination.

Hold this hand
to stop that tread
which crosses the road
with haste, chasing
the edge of the pavement.
Last Arpeggios Mar 2017
a pat seeks the head
like a hammer the nail
and a hug holds more death
than a coffin in February
and a song plays, over and over
and the space between keys
echoes the voice
of an immortal death
Last Arpeggios Oct 2016
It’s the season of sickness.
The ruminant roars,
disarms me with hunger,
Feeds me

poison, contagious
violence; ****** of my
Control, spiller of
my Secret:

‘I am gross.’
Bathroom lights stare at me,
Toilet flushes betray my ears.
Only Courage,

Hanging on
the edge of a lash, leaking
with every pause of breath,
can save me.
written October 2016
Last Arpeggios Oct 2016
Leave then,
but leave them behind

You say,
Wrapping your arms around
the waste, protecting
a pile of photographs

The weight would
break my body

I say,
Turning my back to
this Burden you’ve built
on the floor of our house

You’re hoarding memories,
but you do not ask Me

To stay,
Searching through the pile
for a shadow. The floor creaks.

If you move it may crumble.

(Can you still breathe?
written August 2016
Last Arpeggios Mar 2015
You evolve and
meteorites crush
to dust on her hip,
sweep, before
she can make chalk
and spell In Memoriam

Every move you rip
a little further
dispose of her child’s body
break out of her shell
as something alien
(for her survival)
Last Arpeggios Jan 2015

    Wary and full of hunger, we lie
    the rumor of Love
    with such haste
    for physicality,
    the urgency to embrace
    blurs our faces

    Reluctantly, we find
   there is truth in tenderness.
    But like former convicts
    unpracticed in honesty,
    we let it slip between the bars
    of doubt

    We’re not living we just
    and hope to touch something real.
Last Arpeggios Jan 2015
Grab a seat, don’t take your coat off
    in your own house, I’m not staying,
    only until it clears up; if I go out now
    I will sink into the ground, You say
    as you sink into a chair - a creaking noise,
    to remind you.

    You survive on the short sugar rush
    of a Proustian coffee; the past is a gentle
    unfaithful lover
    I’ll call them. Put on your nicest voice,
    sing yourself to them.
    But you push in so many words;
    they can’’t understand.

 Fall asleep, don’t take off your coat
    in your own bed, I’m not sleeping,
    so when they ring, my phone or door,
    I can open up. I can go home, You say,
    but the blinds have been down so long
    you can’t see when it stops raining

    It hurts to see you try.
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