Voices seduce by harshness in the dark.
Something of silk, but something too of nails.
Threat of the freighter with its bloodblack sails,
between the songs. A casual remark

might cost you much if singers take offense.
They pardon less than poets do; their rhymes
and tunes together crystallize your crimes
so do not cross them. Music rhythmic tense

zigzags across the keys; it’s barrelhouse
or ragtime; almost Chopin for a while.
And then she laughs a sharp. The toothy smile
not insincere but mocking. She’ll arouse

your lust or grief a second then move on.
Music that tugs your heart most when it’s gone.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s