Robert Rorabeck Poems

Burning in the cold spittoons, the mountains rise
Up to the f%cking moons, and I have been betrayed again:
The mailman has fathered my earliest sun while
I was late to home again: The rabbit went down on his fairy,
...

The nights I have loved in high school when I was
A wolverine, I am still resonating out from:
I am a still born in a glass masons shop, being reintroduced
To the forge as punishment for my plagiarism and pornographies;
...

If the dead bloom, they bloom just for you under your
Peeks of tourism;
And I have been doing nothing; and I am not warm, and I am
Growing tired like a pioneer given up between his passes;
...

If the dead bloom, they bloom just for you under your
Peeks of tourism;
And I have been doing nothing; and I am not warm, and I am
Growing tired like a pioneer given up between his passes;
...

The family sleeps in gloom, and I am just waking up:
And the world hasn’t recognized me, just as I haven’t yet learned
The gloom of all of these flowers:
I am absolutely imperfect and beautiful, and I am going down on
...

Basically I just did this for you, Erin:
I just got so drunk that I lost the most beautiful poem about
You again,
And this isn’t even Disney World, and ah-ha, I am going out
...

All the story does it as if it was told,
And there is nothing new about it, and I am hung over:
Maybe I am even well hung; maybe I am even black
And well hung,
...

Now the night moons itself while I have been
Counting perfect:
Maybe I am the perfect director for your divorce of
Numbers and coelacanth,
...

Now the night moons itself while I have been
Counting perfect:
Maybe I am the perfect director for your divorce of
Numbers and coelacanth,
...

Oh your city, f%ck it all: in its streets my mother is moving;
Oh, Oh, Oh, live a wet titted Godzilla I haven’t yet waited
To suck her songs:
And she gets up and bemuses me, while in another year
...