Robert Rorabeck Poems

I hate you my turtle dove: I don’t know who you
Are,
So I just keep sniffing more beefier flowers, and getting
Drunk into bars:
...

I will soon be a tramp who flights towards
Nothing,
Drinking his alphabet liquor and weeping weeping:
Oh, the age old tire swings creaking and repeating,
...

I toss my bottles of rum to cadaverous Mayflowers;
And she says that I am so cute because I reject her because of
Her scars and otherwise hermaphroditisms:
And then I sing out trilling: the spring gurgles and it is thrilling,
...

The night pulls me back towards the doors of
Prostitution:
In the pit of some fair damsels body, a tiny spit of fire burns,
And they keep saying I am so cute, so cute:
...

Maybe the bodies burn their cathedrals of samurais
All day long, but I don’t blame them:
These are just the things that they do when they cant get
Any reception, when there isn’t or there aren’t any good
...

I drink more liquor like a lucky seahorse drinks of its
Velveteen sea;
And perhaps I love you, if this is the worth of my soul,
And I am returning to myself in the bodies of
...

Blue as your eyes are they only go so far in:
They only provide so much shelter for your man and your
Children:
They go burning like the tinsels of fire blown from an
...

Circuses of tricks and good looking women:
The inspectors want more money from me: I just want to
Ejaculate and string out on the swings:
I don’t need to be around other blond boys: I can be my own
...

Words that burn infinitely burn for women:
Lochs of women, virgins breathing and snorkeling both
Above and beneath the sea:
Women of green and amber eyes, like the resins of super holy
...

Even now the bodies burn with the deeper gentrifications
Of my new neighborhood:
Girls are looking gooder than good, as newer than new girls
Should:
...