One Syllable Will Do

What the hell's “intrepid,” anyway,
Except a ship at sea? You say it's not
What I've been called. You pound
Me with your perfumed words. I seem
To suffer lassitude, and fecklessness,
And anomie. As such, I'm of no use
To you. And are you of some use to
Me? We'll see. I'm thinking that you're
Not, and, underneath those perfumed
Words, an odor wafts. It's yours, my
Love. I cannot speak the way you do,
So I'll just say you're shit.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 14 times
Written on 2011-10-03 at 11:56

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