In The Trenches Of Mars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Solar tresses
Breed the sacrificial renaissance
Tossed amidst the Negroid stars:
The blind men who speak boldly
With both tongues,
But they have not choice but to set sail:
For their kingdom is on fire,
Set by a little boy playing in the flaccid wheat:
The book of matches a Molotov cocktail
The silos are full of hungry mice,
And the limpid police don’t know which
Lead to follow:
Their women are in two parts,
Both something of a failed actress,
The jungle is curling up the slopes;
They are pulling the steamer over the
Mountains to see the Opera,
And the little girls who have yet to fail,
Contemplating the deadly fangs of their
First loves, the Boom slang
Draped like wet laundry in the olive trees,
Which will molt the skin in the pews of church:
The hierarchical depictions of men in uniforms:
Bullets for the gun, and the Ferris Wheel’s light-bulb barrel.
Tonight they have come to town,
Selling spun sugar under the abducting lights;
Their hands are full of little tickets for the rides,
And the things we say to impress our grandparents:
The lonely fingers weeping on the piano until dawn.
If I kiss her lips, it will be in the deepest sleep,
In the trenches of Mars, where the air is untried,
And the natives balloons in the evacuated park:
If I kiss her lips, it won’t be tomorrow,
But tonight....