The Fattened Truants Of Fine Throats Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My father has a plan, or he is just waking up,
And the Mexicans of Mexicans work for him: from Juan-e-Juato
Or wherever I am misspelling,
But otherwise it is beautiful: the things he has done and just has
Unforgivable,
As the dogs fornicating with their sisters,
As the nights that are bounding and are never to wake up:
While Alma sleeps in her strange room filled like smoke with the
Strange dreams of lovers that will never come again,
And My only wish is to become a better man for her avenues
As the slip away in imperfect stone and stuttering maize;
And all of it doesn’t have to be real, the feels that are never emboldened:
The whims that recluse in the shadows against the narrowest of
Steps of the prom queen:
This is just the aphorisms of the jest that we have had to for so
Long to be doing:
These are just the words that haven’t yet had the opportunity to be
Described against the unjailed opportunities of all of the
Goldfish that were never waking up:
These were just all of the entrepreneurs behind bars; and these were
Just the feelings swimming around in my gut all too happy to have
Never have been found out,
Like adolescents swimming in the naked pools of their older sisters,
The fattened truants of fine throats
And lips and tongues.