11.2 Kilometers per Second

We shall go in circles here, the
Four of us, like fucking monkeys,
First, the shallow, callow boy,
Who is your age, and also stupid.
Well defined, as word would have
It, also dull, but dull's okay, compared
To what you face from us: a pair
Of, well, let's say it, perverts. He
Would buy your love with trinkets,
Caviar, and cordon bleu, and
Have you be his courtesan, and I,
Oh, Jesus, I don't know. I may
Just want you in the sack, or I may,
Altogether wrongly, hope to have
You heal the weeping wounds,
Which are the bulk of me. I'll
Promise what the others do,
And do my best to leave you
Burdened. Take the callow
Boy, I say. The guy, who owns
The German car, and I, who
Offers art (oh, God), are
Pieces of a past, which precedes
Yours, and shouldn't limit you.
I'd rather, in fact, sit at home,
Imagining your youthful charms,
Than see you fall for Mr. Money.
Take the dolt, or better yet,
Break from the circle. Get away.
You're worth more than what
You've been offered, any
Monkey'd say.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2013-06-15 at 01:43

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