Jonathan Lepp

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Fear is an aged

saxophone with an

unused reed glimmering

in its coffin of

blanketed dust,

a blues snooze with

a broken scale and

an out of tune mind

paired with an out of

mind tune.




Latent Vicissitude

The streets there to

skip and dance on. Puddles

there to stomp and

splash. Restaurant windows

there for my reflection while

a busker plays Harry Belafonte

for my satisfaction. I toss a buck

into his haggard and exhausted

hard case and he smiles, no

teeth in sight. The busker

then plays a dwindling and

lingering note, one that he half

hits, almost misses, his callused

index finger grazes the string

that vibrates and injects like a

junkie syringe in every cell in

my body, the unexpected

infliction of a smacked funny

bone, all painful, all mysterious,

tumescent and cold and ringing

and I realise he’s all alone

and so am I.

In the windows of the

passing by restaurants the

customers see me looking at

my reflection and mutter narcissism.

The puddles soak through my suede

shoes, each step a squish

releasing streams of water

numbing my toes and

everything else. If only

I could dance and skip

on the street would I feel

an inkling of control.


Jonathan Lepp

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