Ever So Motherly Limbs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It’s no holds barred in the venal
Contagions of the sound:
I almost have $200,000 dollars and
A c&ck as hard as spikenard,
And a Jewish lip that I want to press as fat
As a cherry red mollusk who’s been making
Its fornicating rounds around the sea,
Who has been eating legumes and thinking of
You and all the sounds you make with your
Husband deep in the crèches of your bed;
And I just want to move up and wet my pants
In your basin,
Maybe once hold the gossip of your hands,
And throw back your spirits and count the changing
Of my wounds,
Perhaps fart and navigate for one afternoon through
The mausoleum of your rooms:
Sharon, I am not beautiful, but I can go on and on,
Meaningless and harmless, erecting my art like
A child,
Looking up for your holocaust eyes, because any mortal
Could die into them,
And I have given up, and I am no good while the
Police are not around. If you saw me
You would think me imperfect, and I was.
You would love my brother in law just because,
But I want to be perfect, perfectly asleep in the moving
Shadow, the zoetrope and perfumed orchard
Of your ever so motherly limbs.