Stewardess Of Rich Dimes; Or, Go F- Yourself Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am now a conquistador in the peat,
Chewing his lip,
Looking at feet:
And there is nothing newsworthy up in the avenues
Of sky:
I guess I loved you, but I just want to die,
A paper airplane tossed on half-course,
A rind of vermilion amusement fed to the lips
Of a horse:
And I just want to die,
Or I want to skip school,
Want to bend down the tree rings into hell-
Either I want or need more straight liquor;
Either I want or need these thoughts about her,
And the unicorns transform,
And the neighborhood is a sea all about her:
And I just want to F- her,
To write down her in junctures-
But what does it mean to be a captain of such dysfunction,
When I would have rather skipped school using her hand
Tightly to glide, to skiff in a canoe,
To go past the easements of housewives, to hold her still,
To crack shells with her,
To make her real- and really mine- to commit suicide
By inducing the homeopathic coral snake to milk my
Wrist,
To finally lay down and see- the ruby sea anemones
Basking half tossed beneath the pines;
A dozen of them like a rosy sorbet,
Like the handmaidens of Hera-
A goddess of roller skates and highways,
A stewardess of rich dimes, who I’d rather not be around
To believe in.