The Better Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I just want to be homeless and drink wine,
To be like wet paint in preschool,
Like a shellfish stuck in the shell of your mind:
S-,
S- the Sabbath of the week,
The cherry on the tip top of its cherry blossom
Peak:
I think of you through the mortal coil of me
Rooms,
And look up to you as the infant looks up to
The mobile in its carriage room;
But what am I doing, doing,
The sea is always f%cking moving:
And I am wounded, I am gut shot;
I am a good man who has been on top of so many
Good mountains,
And that is the worst thing to be; and I love you
But love seems to have no meaning,
And the world turns like a pie hungry for the fires
Of its baking,
As your eyes burn through the soot of the tourists
Shops,
And the occupations that don’t exist anymore;
And Australia is beautiful, but I have never seen her.
My buttocks quivers as Pedro and my brother
In law are now asleep, like sleeping bicycles sleep.
See them and love them both better than me;
But, S-, you are always better compared to
The better sea;
And S-, S-, your birthdays are inside of me.