Robert Rorabeck Poems

If I can knock the dust of that flint rock,
I’ll be the man who gets the pick of
The girls:
Hey-ho surely, surely now,
...

Late bloomers are on the window treatments;
They are all about the sad long
Movements;
And they are nonsense:
...

Beginning to grow beautiful-
Metamorphosed by my letters and drinking
Habits,
Getting to be frenetic and daubed,
...

Mostly it’s the liver involved.
He takes one for the Gipper.
He boos the pretty boys wooing from
Their stalls,
...

Its so hard to begin with
The pronoun that could be
A dog,
A ba$tard,
...

Indifferent Godzillas,
They’ll break what you just bought-
If you are ready, or even if you are not;
Their eyes are coal-trains fast stoked in
...

Stacked against me,
I suppose we all must die,
But I have a nasty trick of taking a whole
Lot of ba$tards with me before I go-
...

Rene Char died at 80- I keep getting empty
Searches for him, scars of constellation on a bleary night
Of street cars. It has been so long since I’ve walked with
A girl, held her hand and she didn’t apologize, or look away
...

Imperfect whispers beneath my eyes,
Words like the tongues of monsters kissing between
The thighs,
Wanting to swap meet with you, handy and cruel,
...

Old new light over good sides of flesh
Sometime in the late early afternoon, washing
A piece: This is when the familiar strange traffic
Moves amongst the
...