Those Unnecessary Waves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Maybe the bodies burn their cathedrals of samurais
All day long, but I don’t blame them:
These are just the things that they do when they cant get
Any reception, when there isn’t or there aren’t any good
Sci-fi on,
And Diana is making love to her bald man, even though she asked
Me to buy her lingerie:
And I love Diana even while the basil wilts in its little black bay:
And now I just have enough money to enjoy myself,
To forget my mother and father and their awful
Sorts of spouses: to make love to whores who enjoy making love
To me,
And their beautiful tattoos pointing the way like the first star
Of morning on their inner thigh,
Like a compass mouthing off and congratulating itself in the bay
Where the housewives are drowning luxuriously
And the stewardesses are as of you floundering, collecting themselves
In the head rooms of the violent green caesuras of all of those
Unnecessary waves.