The Hypothesis Of A Windchime On A Battleship Sunk In The War Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The door is still open,
But I will never believe in god with so
Many maidens half naked in the wood,
And glad about it-
I am not afraid to die and be forgotten under
The evil flowers-
I do not deceive myself these feeble words
Will at all matter,
The little flaunts like tinfoil decorating the eyes
Of an angelic reptile;
To the spoon-fed muse I give my time,
But she would never think of leaving her husband-
She’s not even sure if I exist anymore,
The hypothesis of a wind chime on a battleship
Sunk in the war-
Alone in the park with the houses turned off,
I put my dimes in trees,
And crawl up a ways, frightened but insouciant:
I’ll come down when I’m hungry and wise,
Steal into the bedrooms nobody cares about,
Taking the Eucharist into my mouth, and when it is
Time to go to the cemetery,
I will ride my bicycle there and flatulate all the way,
To the amusement of tribes too young to distain;
I will insist to lie down myself-
Naked in the cemetery except for my words
To her, to smell her grubby
Perfume, to deceive myself yet hungry for truer definition
Even as I close my eyes.