Their Son Of Suns Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Please, I need the possibility of fireworks or
Anything else that isn’t real,
While the unicorns smell the pollens of little girls
In their bedroom merry go rounds underneath
The prepubescent windowsill;
And it throws me in the parasol when it rains,
The ship is in its bottle, the rose is in its vase,
The grandmother is in her urn,
And the hypnotized serpent is just coming out in case
That there is a light at the end of the movies,
While the plots are all reconciled and vacillating through
The webbing lights throughout the arrowhead planes,
As the lion yawns chastising the bromeliad tourists
Who walk straight out through the orange groves
And the green cannons,
And into Disney World; as this is they make-believe Florida,
Selling its shares it another seeming amusement
Vacillating for a little while above the streets,
And then turning down, and meeting themselves out underneath
The hungry cornucopias that cop their pleas to the
Cannibalisms and incest’s of each and every one of my smiling
Cousins
Who’ve had their bloody day out underneath the blood moneys
Of their son of suns.