Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,700 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Everything Is Yours - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I settle down with the pain,
The human base from which
The fountainhead springs:
The five senses riding forth
Like lunatics,
Each one wanting to rob
More than the others
From the bank of
Your lips,
But you shoot them down
And scatter them
From so far away.
They come back riding
Through the beggar’s dust,
Their saddlebags starving,
Bringing back the pain
Of all that emptiness—
They all sit around the porch
Of their mother’s blouse
She unbuttons to try
And let them in but
They are too drunk to
Move.
Every second they are
Petrified by you.
Opened or closed,
Their senses see you,
Feel you, taste you,
Hear you riding around them
Like a buxom phantom,
But they cannot win,
For you are the Devil’s
Instrument,
Man’s first sin,
The knowledge that made desire
Bloom in Adam’s empty
Chest,
The abscess of his missing rib,
So need set forth the exposed
Cartilage and bone of his open wound
Like a cadaver’s bouquet
Upon the silver platter of
The human race;
You let them in and trapped them,
The caged animals watching you
Move around them,
Your legs tall shots of liquor,
Your eyes blinking gardens,
Your dress the breezy curtain
Over your body’s gold mine;
Before you tasted the honey
Of savage wisdom,
Injected with the serpent’s
Neon poisons,
They didn’t even know
What you were
Though their eyes touched your
Flesh through every young day,
But now that you made
Man aware of you,
With the knowledge leaping
Out of you
Like electric briars from
Your roses’ spasms,
You ungulate backwards,
A mirage, you are somewhere else
Even though you seem close enough
To make love,
To touch,
To taste,
As you flaunt your form
Before his sight,
While, from your secret room,
You whisper his name into his ear,
While your scent calls him
Like a hound to the hunt,
The blue mountain lion
That disappears with sundown
Through the white spools of aspens.
You play your beautiful game,
Calling him once or twice a year
When you get drunk.
Naked pictures of you are on the
Playing cards in his hand,
But it is you who will take the purse,
For when you open your legs
You make the rules,
As you made his senses become aware.
Lying mortally upon you,
Everything is yours.


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Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee



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Poem Submitted: Saturday, September 29, 2007

Poem Edited: Tuesday, April 12, 2011


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