An Artist Amid the Sprawl

Degrees of falseness float, like juggler's balls,
Before my eyes as I attempt to take a nap.
The buildings up and down the street are false.
Their flourishes of painted pine pretending
To be stone. The mansions on the hill are false,
With driveways made of molded concrete, not
Of brick, and “hardwood” floors assembled
From some plastic stuff, and all the people
Here and there, in stores, in houses, driving,
Dress and speak to seem what they are not,
A gentry. They are clods of shit, who live
On borrowed money, make their dinners out of
Frozen food, and emulate their neighbors, who
Do what their other neighbors do. And I describe
What can't exist. In words, well-wrought, but rotten
As the pine beneath the paint, I give you places
No one's gone, and people who are not, among them,
This one who is writing. All of them are false,
And false, and false.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 25 times
Written on 2010-03-01 at 18:04

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text