The Orgasm Of Battleships Poem by Robert Rorabeck

With all points folded to singularity,
I can end up working at McDonalds,
And I will still be your love surfing through the
Dangerous toughs of that dark continent,
Sniffing out your golden trap which lies in wait
For other men,
Professionals of the dark side of the moon,
Word smiths of the loom of hair-lips and cleft
Palates:
I will spit into your snare and have it done myself,
With sphinx-like hair all over my body,
With my eyes unblinking shadeless lamps- with my celibate
Limbs oiled in amber grease and lamb chops,
I will spill out of the orgasm of battleships,
Spitting out chunks of heavenly bodies
And the oysters of a sexual renaissance and trundle
Toward you through the battlefield of spikenard
And alabaster terrapin-
I will misspell dragons and misquote important events,
But I will catch you there like a fish beating with
A rabbit’s heart,
Like a wax model fighting for a spell of life,
While the bullies key my car,
While the alligators invade the food court,
And deeper lovers lose their virginity in the wild school
Bus:
I will take you for myself and feed you steaming macaroni,
And make you libertarian,
And otherwise surreal, and pick up your houses in a saucy
Hurricane and otherwise try to remember what
I was going to say in the small talk of a rainstorm
Some summer day,
After I’d gallivanted to your home, like a wolf drinking
Wine with your mother waiting for you to arrive
To swallow you whole to fill my lupus soul;
And the only thing true about the whole ordeal is that
Through all of high school I never got to follow
You home.