Gorgeous Youngish Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spilling water like drunken wishes out into the space
Of nothing:
Yes, yes, yes: this is the last Aristotelian plane of nothing,
And it has proven to be up to no good: no more haircuts under the
Moons of quieted nothing:
No more haircuts for nothing, Melanie: and why, oh why I am
Singing to you, and seeming to swim toward you coyly just like a
Jelly fish or tadpole,
Because you cannot love me, because I am not beautiful,
And this is nothing given up like a song in an auction:
And the days go by and your children develop, grow long legs
And spearmint arms: and what, oh what am I doing:
Oh, but the old classroom is dimmed but still coming on,
And the skyways go on a ways, and I just want to buy a house under
The pestilence of satin moons:
I just want to be excepted and to lay low: I don’t wish to rob any more
Trains, but look into this another bag of fireworks, spinning and
Twirling around just like a bungalow of circle jerks;
And your children; Oh your children have the most beautiful eyes,
But only beautiful, just half as beautiful as my eyes gleaning;
And my eyes licking: yes, my eyes cleaning, and sucking and cleaning
Straight in between the straight of your greedy young dragons of your
Gorgeous youngish thighs….