The Budded Guillotine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Will you help me kill myself?
I’ve got the fire ax,

You’ve got those eyes
That I can remember,
Those lips which spill gasoline,
Those legs which outrun
All studded law,

And that man.
I know- that man,
The amusement parks with
My life on the line....
You’re holding his hand.

Some night in soft California,
The sea kissing the sun,

Its so easy how you’ll do it,
I know
And appreciate hearing
The eulogies of thoughtless euthanasia,

My heart poisons
As your lips entwine
Like a spy’s garret...

The deer stumble towards the
Glowing swimming pool,

The night flowers bloom.
The woman is singing French.

I don’t even need a tool,
Your name spoken to you
In the quiet apertures of those pleasure stung interludes....
The budded guillotine

I shouldn’t hear it,
But I do,
Each humid wave pricking against your resting ear,
The purple thorn pushes deeper in the ancient wound,

The blade coming down,
As if you were his child alone in his woodcutter’s embrace,

And it’ll do just fine.