Satan's Chum Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Throbbed in fires of rum:
Doing good work for Satan, Satan’s chum:
I chum the waters for this bum-
I beat the silly, silly Satanic drum,
And the smiling dwarfs come, showing that
Their pockets are empty,
Wanting to start smoking and drinking coffee
And playing in the cactus;
Telling my with their Lucifer eyes that my future
Lies broad-sided in the sharp foliage of
Palmetto fronds:
Lying there cutout of the dead, dug up sharp shoveled
And knocked in the head:
Lying there where her parents lived a decade ago,
Where I used to come over and serenade her like
An uncut cat-
While the policemen patrolled and swung their
Blue hats;
And the blue pigs squealed from the chicken coups of
Gaudy sin:
And I knocked on her bedroom and
She let me in.
Sharon, beautiful Satan, jewelry clasped in your ears
Like coniferous globe,
Like a sink hole in Gainesville, Erin. Erin, do you really
Read my poems,
Erin- Who are you, but flying on your broom,
You go to inspect the castles of coquina: You leave your
Room and the centripetal curse of your ceiling
Fan, Erin:
This is really what you do:
You call up an entire legion of devils and you make them
Your boyfriends,
And you feed them spikenard and make them take off
Their clothes and enter the waves you’ve
Concocted and the waves spit and hiss, white salted:
Making your spells of spikenard,
Erin- you lied to me, didn’t you? And the room spins with
Your curse,
And I leap over the fires to escape,
But there are always new fires; and when I die,
Wont your beautiful Satan know, three headed,
Insatiable:
There you’ll be, Erin- with the frozen golf-courses
And the fires of hell.