In The Unforgiving Reality Where I Already Belong Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scars, like punched roses, the ungainly pugilists
Tattooed by rich spined anemone, I have all these
Expectations, like tourists lining a parade of
Conquistadors flashing crustaceaned for the hurricane,
Blasting their green copper cannons to bemuse,
To wake up early the venal and the sick muse;
To lick his lips on liquor for breakfast, to be so sharp
And lucky as to read Baudelaire and Rimbaud in the
Original pig-Latin; or girls in pigtails hiccupping on
Splotchy ponies- Bullies waiting at the bus stop to punch
You like a type-writer, to send you spinning back over
The iron pyrite of her happy tresses, to the school day
Again in the green lanai with cartoonic blisses;
And I thought I’d succeeded in loving you by writing down
The perfect thing, and putting it in this bottle to save
Me, but it seems I have to turn it out first, and upset the
Apoplectic indigenous with my lattening afternoon diseases,
Francaphonic and gardening, trying to think up impressive
Names for flowers, ending up defeated by lesser countries
With more beautiful covers; it would be so much easier
To take you out into the sun of my abandoned five acres,
Raping you to the sounds of lonely traffic, and spending
The rest of life doing penitence in the unforgiving reality where
I already belong.