Lips Of Chaos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Understand the Fury's noise
And you will drink from
The lips of Chaos.
The murdering science
Bled the universe
And she is still giving birth.
And lovers slowly seperate
Like continents
That once clutched each other.
The painful tectonics
Of gravity's invisible shroud
Weigh upon us our
Ancestral sins
Like forensic evidence
Stratified in the clouds.
The wolves would blow
The house down
But we let them in.
Flip the switch,
The electricity of a
Good blow job
On her knees like the pietà.
Then her eyes are
Concave rubies
Geometry swimming in
Fiery motes,
150 watt angelicism
Filigreed by opal stems
With a blue bird behind them,
Like a wizard humming
Behind a curtain- a stage
By which the traffic is a
Galloping herd
Of thoughtless silver kines
That we use to stear
Ourselves further
Away from our kind
Outlined by the tumorous
Rays
That flop and lay like
Beached porpoises upon our
Clammy foreheads
And slide like greasy
Fingerprints along our
Gulping throats,
The pain that we cannot say
But taste the suffocating
Poison like the gallow's noose,
When at the edge of the
World
An old man and a little
Girl hold hands
And turning away up
A glass staircase through
The sky leading to
The white white room
Of early childhood
On the 2nd floor
Inside which innocence remains
Wisely agoraphobic
To the truancies of his
Professional siblings
Committing the crimes
Of time and gravity
Decomposing on the street.