Bachelor's Row Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Look stranger
The women now are moving
Over the stations of the cross,
Like moonlight on silver,
Like an assassin’s blade, like
The stinging barb of the wasp.
To the east they dropp the fags
Into the sea,
A funeral pyre for the man
They just lost,
They cross themselves and sigh
And kiss their novel knight under
The cherubic harems of the old,
And his whispered lies crawl up and cry,
Pollinate the conjured wind with a
Banishing storm,
The wet strength she finds suites her
In the city of the brand-name heart:
They F— and fart, laugh and smoke,
And piss and defecate over those
Murdered bones of yesterday’s business card
All rolled up in a bed that
Has been thoroughly washed,
After he was kicked out…..
They found that his scent did not
Smell right,
So they sent him down the road,
When all they really needed was something
Unexpected, the stranger unloading
His bags at the door and spending
The night to move on into a different estuary;
They keep him for a year or two,
Sniff his armpits
And say that this is one c-ck they might
Not marry.
I pretend to love her and her end,
The tail of the addictive fiend
The lubrication of my tongue skating around
Her ring and
The way her eyes strut unafraid through
Her gardening of men,
As she waters and tends to them by
Her various plots;
But I do not love her, my vindictive spot,
But only need her to unload,
The posy from my spindled wand,
That expanding mollusk which smells her
End like the rich earth where our children
Lay buried in waiting,
But I will not be defeated by her,
And her nature the nether wind:
She will move on as fast as she can,
Because her life is in the two weeks
Of an insect’s vacation:
She cannot sin, because she does not love.
To love is to understand,
And that is not a part of her receptive plan:
She is the lioness in heat on the savannah,
Moving on from one King’s
Harem to the next,
The ugly Lisa waiting for her second place:
She only worries that her crotch is
Waxed and shaved thoroughly at
Both ends.
In the end she hits the spot
And cries his name in pretend.
Sometimes she gets it right,
And sometimes she calls out the tag
Of some john she has not so long ago
Sent packing down to
Bachelor’s row.