The Dead Ends Of The Dead-End Dungeons Poem by Robert Rorabeck

At all the dead ends of the dead-end dungeons,
The dead girls are doing porn:
They are becoming the erotic photographs for all of the weirdos.
As all of the dragons are shedding their horns:

In the sky outside, so far above our heads that we can make-believe
It is all of the heavens,
There is thunder whose flinted claps spark lightning above the drunken inns,

The mermaids are canned into their fishy grottos,
The jinns are jammed into their horn-rimmed tins:

Grandmas and grandpas are sleeping in all of their graveyards
Across the highways of our lands-
The cows have crossed into their pastures,
As to Disney Worlds all of the tourists have entered in-

And it has become a hapless lightshow, jism spilled upon the paper heads
Of dead presidents:
Memories of our high schools have evaporated and are floating
Above the crowded mazes of the suburbias who have
Impregnated us with our socialized dreams:

Adam and Eve are picking strawberries from the stars,
They are an advertisement licensed by Satan to sell us the forbidden
Knowledge of so many useless things:

The keys are in their cars,
The housewives are in their kitchens, and their children
Are playing with kidnappers in their forested swings:

As the lamentations of the old gods' giants effervesce into the sky,
Causing hallucinations for the stewardesses who are working
In the airplanes that are all passing us by.

The skeletons tap-dancing on the abandoned steps,
But they are taking their time-
The emptied throats are opened, trying to imbibe
The grapes of a withered vine-
As our rhymes recall us from our windows,
Trying to transform us, into the metamorphosis after the midnights of
Our quitting times.