Pickpocket Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pool and cuddle in the amalgam of
Centipedes,
Which is the same as seeing a fire’s orgasm
With the sky so alarmed that it removes
Its curtains,
Compromising the sunbathing maidens of an inkless
Justice,
As the mountains arise over the prostrate Samurai
And nudge the burred chins of the gypsy angels
And the homeless men are taking the ski-lifts up from
The wigwams of the dancing chicken,
Filibustering the
Christmas tree lights of an irreverent police. Nothing is
Made secure;
Our hands out for alms; but we are very rich:
In fact those are our yachts over and across the sea,
A sea of men who you so casually fish.