Another Poem Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I've never used the adjective
Gun-metal until now.
Because, thinking about it,
My p*ni$ is, in fact- Gun metal blue
From the savage arteries like Hebrew
Slaves building for my libido;
That forever-object of phallu$, my forefather's
Springtime monument
When erected vibrates, finds out water,
salutes the stars,
Zigheil$
Fires its bullets around New Years,
Is highly speculative, and well drawn:
A cerulean tarp without any sag;
A cavernaserai into the sea,
Perhaps with a sense of smell and not just
The taste buds of the icky-groin;
A radio-active spelunker which when exploring
The lie of her Plutonic cave does away with
The senses of any other motion,
Begins the roil of the sea of two bodies
Exploring through the cliched poetry of Chinese
Fireworks. She can write me a single word,
Or walk by the whispering traffic with her legs
Showing off and and I become patriotic especially for
Her and such polished color engorges
Though when expulsed, shrinks into the white
Ghost, the capless octogenarian,
a terrapin tired and lazy on its orchid,
Sleeps under the school bus and my scarred chest,
Like a hermit, beautifully retracted into an oil slick,
And I have written this for her,
Who in my dreams has eyes and lips of matching
Gun-metal blue; she stands like a wingless herald
Beneath the troubled sepia skies,
But I've already told you
This in another poem.