That Age Old Poetic Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The noise of this bouquet I have
Has no feeling; it has been out on the shelves of
The shopping mall too long-
Now how is it to sell. Thinking of great cheese
Makes me hungry and horny,
So I want to mouth off and masturbate: Now that
I’ve seen all five of Kelly’s children
And her breasts,
The guns of the settlers who will start the revolution:
The guns and the cannons,
And the men buried in the great dunes of everyday
Tourism.
I just want to sleep. I don’t want to keep calling out
Girls from their shells,
Girls from their shells when I cannot, when it
Is impossible to pry a mollusk from its swarthy comb
Without first killing it and then digesting it between
Your buggered lips:
When she has a family and a daughter or men she
Meets and slaps every night like a religious flag
Does the country over the graveyard:
When she is fully grown and useless otherwise,
And I am not beautiful,
And was only made for working long hours anyways.
I cant put anymore of this liquor in my body without becoming
Falsely religious and plagiarize.
I’d rather just go to sleep and let someone else
More weary than I bleed their guts tonight into that age old
Poetic sky.