Inside Of Those Poor Muses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Never tarrying for werewolves, the roses bud:
Over castles tormented by rain,
Over tattoo parlors,
Over the inparticular ammenities that cannot spell:
The night is out and she has opened her throat
To the boys who are still hanging out,
Whilst the neighborhood is vacated,
Made to throw tricks of towns at the sea—
Overcast by the places that loom large in her
Ill-begotten memory—
Another novel spun out of the womb of the
Dungeon of a fairytale—
While wolves in Colorado lactate on the stars,
And cars move underneath the pregnant jubilations—
What is this, but some form of pornorgraphic glee,
Stuck too the teeth of a snake that causes paralysis by
Stone:
I remember when I taught at my old high school,
I remember when I was all alone—
And the stars were out, naked dancers in their cabaret of
Astrology—
Another plagiarist does not have to move;
This isn’t religion, but a poem—
The muses that i have all loved all are home,
And if it is raining outside,
It is raining on the roses that are still alive
And not stuck inside one of those poor muses’ adulturous homes.