Spilling Their Philosophies Of Ladies' Magazines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dogs in hell get boring-
Bare-chested, bruised, she is made up of
The darker colors of escargot,
Where serpents coil protective of their bright
Knowledge,
Incest of shadows balled underneath the antebellum
Swings- Mailmen who defeat it all,
Estranged wives with hair-lips displaced into
The trailer parks needing new engines,
Never take down their sad Christmas Lights,
And I display these wrists for her,
Wondering if she has any tools,
Or if she might cook a hot meal for me,
Spill together several mammals-
But all these things are just images like vampires
Left out in the falling snow,
Bright red tricks of carnivorous flowers-
The things that Baudelaire had to say- A blade
In Marlow’s eye,
Revealing the limited perspective of cowboys
To little girls hop scotching in Bellefontaine,
Malingering curls do no good
When the finger is done with its fidgeting,
Even a vast vocabulary cannot spell the profit made
From Appalachian bootlegging-
The outlaws stripped of earth and education,
Plastic flowers stymieing entire kingdoms of apoplectic
Ants;
And I await in the dark shuttered of any number of
Suburban foreplay, drinking my thing, even while knowing
That the agents who could make this happen
Have better and more endowed young things
Who are beautifully spilling their philosophies of ladies’
Magazines,
To fondle galloping on one designer suited knee,
Areolas arousing like sand dollars becoming revealed in
Clearwater, to waste their time on.