the lovers
oblomov
It's better to have loved and lost
than to have gained domesticity.
Unrequited she is Beatrice,
bedded more of a Felicity
Kendall, moaning over breakfast
about household chores.
Let the lovers be frustrated,
it's easier to pay whores.
And yet I begrudge the boy
her waist-length hair, her flesh.
I still wish his were my hands,
sliding up her nylon mesh,
or tying a locket on her neck,
to tip the nothingness of breasts,
indenting then on him, a boy
and not on me, their guest.
The politeness that allows lust
when she sucks upon a finger,
and is pleased to join eyes with me,
or let her stretched legs linger,
makes me want never to stop
our talk, and rudely to ignore
men who claim the same right,
or ridicule them and be a bore.
It's better to have loved and lost,
but he will take her pants down
and harshly fuck her without care
for my reasoning or appreciation
of her wavering tonal accents,
and her literary voraciousness.
He won't even see her Saxon
face, in his rapaciousness.
These boys have no idea yet,
they don't even know they're born.
If it wasn't so much heartache
I'd be the one with the horn
who let her ride me instead,
and never waning till she tired,
lie like Pygar in Barbarella
and mount her after, re-inspired.
I'll phone her while the boy
sleeps, with his hairless chest,
and invite her for a week of sex
to Corfu on some pretext.
We'll say it's for work and stay
all day in varied coitus
and by night on the empty beach,
stroll where surf comes in to meet us.
Is it better to have loved and lost?
You'll get what you want, she smiled,
maybe, when you no longer want it.
Then I quoted Oscar Wilde
about the tragedy of success.
She said she'd settle for achieving
such a tragedy. I must confess
I don't know what to be believing.
oblomov ©2003
