Lovely

Grim as German fairy tales, I sit,
Butt wet, on this deck, smoking,
Sorry I agreed to join her here,
Inside her parents' house.
The place is clean. It's antiseptic,
And it's new, and sleekly stark.
Every cushion's in its place. A
TV looms. There are no books.
A larder, if they call it that, is
Filled with trendy, frozen dishes.
Everything would seem to have been
Calculated to advance the notions
That, first, they are wealthy, and,
That, second, they are without taste.
They don't stick out their necks, and,
Thus, they represent some demographic:
Upper middle class, perhaps bourgeois,
Perhaps just bureaucratic. Either earns
My scorn. I'd rather be back in
My dirty studio, among the ones
They tend to want to label losers,
Peeling pages from my book of stamps
To feast on fatty food, to read, to know,
At night, when I turn out the light,
That I'm alive among the germs
And roaches, parts of an existence
Which predates, and also supercedes,
The fantasies which advertisers conjure,
Which, somehow, became the standards
To which this poor woman and her
Parents shape their lives.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 41 times
Written on 2013-04-13 at 01:05

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