Well Suited By The Encroaching Distance Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Heavenly clichés,
Masturbate to your hump
Until the night is a cured nirvana,
And I don’t care where you are:
I’m just doing this out of reflex,
Recognizing the chief convictions of mountain
Ranges in their great loneliness;
And high up in the cold there lives
A celibate god,
Recording the world, watching out
For wildfires,
Burrs at his hips, he grows and seems to
Call me from upstairs,
Handing out the cads to the middle-class
Until I remember the golf-date out in the rain,
And lose my virginity near beside the
Alligators and their primordial circumstance;
When it is all over,
I forget to apologize, and handed over her
Stuff so she could ride away on her bicycle
And turn back in to the mysteries of tame households;
And I could get back by four am,
To lose myself in a sooty dictionary, like Cinderella
Looking away into telescopes while
She got married and metamorphosed into something
Else, though very similar to a housewife,
As he worked her through the threshold,
And I sowed my old friends awake from the dragons
Fangs, the sea growing in between us like a violent
Collage until it was useless except to drink,
For we were both well suited by the encroaching distance.