Polychrome's Fairyland Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pseudo graphical lovers know the curiosity of
My sharp hips,
The changing weathers of my gaze inside the frankfurter
Apartments of yellow smells,
As all day the rains parachute like little enemies,
While cats clean their kittens underneath the scissoring
Palmettos beside the carport’s bric-a-brac,
And all of it looks like Spain or a good romantic movie
About that Arid country. Maybe I got a tattoo in Madrid,
Maybe she sang down to me all the way from France;
But all of that is over now, just the midpoint Diaspora of
High school. I was remedial my senior year- I took freshman
Art and P.E. for the second time fully dressed around the outdoor
Basketball courts- How strange that there were no fireworks,
And no laws to amend, and psychology in the overflowing
Trailer park next to the canal where truancy was too close
To resist; and all my poetry comes from flight many years
Ago. Now sedentary and dependant there really is no woman
With eyes so precious as lapis lazuli, no conquistadors,
Or commercial airlines- The amphibians are going to in their
Teal wet-suits. They go into polychrome’s Fairyland
Where you can find all of it unpublished- If you are an ex-lover,
It will give you a smirk, for you can see I’ve been doing
Nothing, but looking real coy- An ordinary boy with ordinary
Skin, hair, and eyes; Say it ain’t true,
or I am just a hare leaping through the dunes
After the terrapin, just gossip of a fable passed by tongues
In the vineyard who in the danse ruse of their twilight
No longer have neighbors to speak of, but live in a pre-Socratic
hospice, and give reason through the feeble lies that grow like wet
Ivy along the lanai- There are cracks a mile long out in the neighborhood
I drive home too, and incredibly sexy banshees in their chillingly
Brilliant smocks cooking dinner deep in the fjords of crypt orchid
Mountain ranges, crying home the lonely one-legged mountaineer
and his best friends.