My Inescapable Of Tomorrows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh god of vomit, god of filth, don’t ask me how
I am doing:
If you know, I am surviving, you are my tomorrow of my
Tomorrows:
And how I am doing, while you are first riding your first
Men’s horses,
Getting down on your knees and giving head to your choruses
Of choruses:
You of all should know how I am dying, dying, dying;
Because this is our song, and I am not even crying:
And this is our blood bath, your ablution, my tomorrow:
You awaken a sweet song, you legs creaking like wind chimes
In your birth, seesawing for breakfast:
I have forgotten what I am worth, except that you are always
My inescapable of tomorrows.