High Altitude Graveyard Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Delinquent children now making love
Under a desk of bubblegum and sunlight,
Like blue turds in a trout lake high up in
The glittering basins the
Mountains secrete from fornication,
From slow but tolerant mobility, jangling storms
Like cloaks, like moats of sadness.
I smear expensive snails on my face so that
My mother will love me; I wear a tragedian
Death mask and eat
Red liquorish and clap farts to French cartoons
Where ladies and bicycles are synonymous.
I draw trees on the walls of my prison and girls with
Scabbed knees and grass stains. What have they
Been doing, I wonder, as I lick their inks from
My palm,
And fat salmon swim by, pregnant and backwards
Not at all perturbed by the high altitude graveyards
Where they are going to pearl all their pretty children
Around a corpse.