The End Of The Week Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scarred like my beautiful aunt with
Ants in her pants
Listening to bluegrass in Tennessee:
I am f$cking home again, home with my dogs,
And getting nose bleeds,
Jacking off the belladonnas to Sharon,
Wishing I could nuzzle up with her sweet young child
Getting fat,
Listening to guns in roses, getting chapped on her
Paps while the age old horses suckle up to her wayward
Kazoo:
They suckle up to her age old kazoo, and this is just
What they do;
And I suppose I’ll just have to spend all of my money on
Whores,
On whores who really love me, on whores;
And the day this day is a game show, an unlucky gameshow;
And I cant remember the last day I held another woman’s
Hand, when her toenails and fingernails were painted up
All day since
Christmas,
Since Easter,
And where has she hidden all of the eggs if not in
Her husbands crooked basket:
In her husbands crooked basket, and I just want to come
Alone into her creche all alone in the yard right next to
The baptized car while my parents or her parents where making
Love and shaking the house from side to side,
And not suppose to be upsetting the china, but upsetting the china
A little bit,
Like the anonymous women buried beneath the rose thorns,
Buried beneath the castle where the fat and beautiful tourists
Are always driving the machines to and fro
And demanding more ice out amidst the cookie cutter esplanades,
Never expecting that they had no hope of surviving even until
The end of the week.