The Pomegranate's Bitter Blood Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Never read out your poetry,
Because that makes you a whore;
When you see a star,
Lie and call it green;
Prick your thumb on it, and your prick:
Stare into a certain dream and laugh and piss:
Make love to the limbless on the back of a moving train:
In and out of deaf tunnels and the rain;
Bark at the jade dog, and then toss it into the flames;
Pin a live butterfly to your vest and let it pull you
Along the shady lindens of the promenade;
Never love her alone for too long,
Never her at all, if you feel you must;
Displace the lust into the spindles of the draping dust:
Because if you read out your poetry;
If you smite open the imperfect geode,
Spill the pomegranate’s bitter blood;
She will only laugh until interest is utterly lost;
And you, alone, will rust
And rust and rust.