Sweet, Sweet Honey Beast Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am on my third beer,
And the world is still real,
And eyes are the easy illusions,
But the tricks are real-
And I am not Sylvia Plath,
I am not even her currying son:
And the sky is a waterslide of a slit throat,
And the sweet girls have so much fun
With the butchers,
With their bayoneted guns:
And there are still places in the word where
The ivory billed woodpeckers live,
But wherever they are it is haunted,
And my sisters are real and
They skin dive,
And cars are real and bee hives;
And Stephen King coughs up ghosts-
Ghosts with
C$nts and video games;
And her eyes are like the wings of paper airplanes,
Molting to the steady pecking of minnows underneath the
Red holly on the other side of the canal;
And in the first and the last of every crepuscule I
Fashion myself the sweet smells
She puts off in her bedrooms far over my head;
And I almost thought the traffic was finally done
With its chromed surcease,
But down here it is never done, far to the eat
Of her sweet, sweet honey beast.