To Make Diana My Bride Poem by Robert Rorabeck

To Make Diana My Bride



Words drooling on the bone:
What is the moon doing but pulling up the bed sheets
Of tide,
After salty coitus,
Leaving all of the anemones shivering like pomegranates
In a cold and wearisome sun;
And I have good friends again, because
I am slightly beautiful: I am good for getting drunk with,
And getting girls done:
I wear the dress code of ancient planets- My shoes
Have no laces.
I can be folded into cul-de-sac, or spit shine your beautiful
Sister’s braces;
And the day is young; and the day is young, and all the
Glaciers are just the tears of crocodiles;
And I want to take you on miles of miles of simpering fun:
I want to sit for strange photos with Dianita on my lap;
And then at night, all of your ancestor’s lights blown
Out,
Kiss and throttle her tongue, make wishes, and burp her young:
All the tadpoles of ancient and ferocious rivers;
Now I am the conquistador, and I am the Indian Giver,
And I will make Diana my princess,
And we will eat together with the cannibals, and play bumper
Cars with the bodies of our two young mammals:
For Diana’s ride are the plumes and cabbages of one sweet
Ride;
And for Diana I would doom anything, polishing my skeleton
To make Diana my bride.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Kerry O'Connor 19 January 2010

A sumptuous feast of words.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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