This Beautiful, Beautiful Of Times Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How comical are your eyes: birds of pests,
Utterly surreal and insincere,
Like the waitress who served me the buffet today;
And I am dying in a lark of masturbating boats:
Kelly, if you read this,
I am dying, like a newborn off your breasts,
And my neck has been bitten by a werewolf or a vampire:
Twice bitten,
And once more and I will no longer need to feel the
Fibrillations of the gills of a blue gill:
Kelly- and Erin doesn’t care: My venal muse all busty
And like a crown of thorns ventrillicating above my head,
The first and the last of my muses:
And I drive up and down the sloughs of Clear Water
And I dream of her as I return to the estuaries of trailer parks;
And all the nuns sing that all this liquor will make
One slower,
But I don’t believe them because I have never felt any better:
And the faces of the people I have seen today,
Repeating softly as softer breasts on pillows:
And I am dying Kelly, dying for the juxtaposition of my
Comparable fellows;
And I need someone who can save me in the carports of
Unfamished camaraderie- Kelly:
Your nights are young and pushing up daisies; and I am waiting
For you nude and well-hung in the glittering slopes in
The back streets of all of this tourism:
I would never think of drinking wine or eating clemintines
While I am waiting for you, Kelly;
But I am waiting for you, while the housewives proceed like
The sweets of the greatest giants of the gods who went before us;
And I have been waiting for you passive in all the tenses
Of this beautiful, beautiful of times.