The Wooden Theatre Of My Miniscule Amusement Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Might I go on in whatever many axioms I find:
Spooling, but also spendthrift- pennies of whizzing fires
That amuse her like overworked fire-wheel midgets,
Blowing my mind out like candles who blow lips;
And for awhile she has a funny time,
Brindled in her whorish habits; I don’t know how long
It’s been since I’ve road a bicycle, or had a thought of
My own, or money of my own: I do it all for her,
Her brown ochre eyes, her honey sweet dun eyes,
Her apple dumpling cheeks, her plum pudding thighs;
But what is this, what is this spell I am trying to conjure;
And something is wrong, because the storm clouds are no
Longer lanky, but fat like fed heifers beneath the trees,
Pooling, and shooting off lightning bolts below the knees:
And what is she doing, as beautiful as she pleases,
But smiling as she’d first done. She don’t even sneezes:
Oh what a farce, is there something wrong with my brain;
Are my wrists too juicy, do they need to be drained?
She looks so beautiful because of this, but it’s as she chooses;
She stares, she drinks to my tiny fluoride body; it’s buzzing
Sweetness- and when the phosphorous is done hissing, and
I’m just a piece of Chinese paper flickering in the grass,
She will turn and kiss her bruin, some bearish legionnaire
Who’s come trundling through the forest now that my
Cheap act is over- they’re to get down and hibernate in
The balmy rhythms of his fire-truck stuck like a red finger down
By the farm house; and she blows me out like a birthday cake, wasted,
Hoping that I won’t notice that she has wished for this
Other man’s business, and getting it, resigns from the wooden
Theatre of my miniscule amusement.