Zing-Zang, Charlemagne Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This just in today:
Two match-stick suicides on the back of a
Wild brome pony:
Death and Co. &, she wrote:
a mother and son team,
Boys, that’s the real kicker-
With nowhere else to go, the headlines proclaim,
There could only be one conclusion.
Yes, that she was beautiful, mightily so,
Even with that black spot in the upper plateau
Of her left cheek and her smoke-dried poesy
Of a husband.
She didn’t get bucked, not her,
But stuck her head in the oven. Zing-zang,
Charlemagne- Her eyes, why even closed,
While even preached upon and laid around with
That bright polished wood of her snow-white coffin
They sang like real live blue jays,
They sang to us all who were there and jotting it down:
Swinging through the bell-jars of life’s aberration.
Nothing so sweet can last so long;
Why, its just as contagious as poison,
And I want you to write that down.
Like Siamese twins as blue as virgins
Flirting with all of the tweed jacket bull-pen.
Hee-haw and Scooby-doo, and her son too,
Just yesterday, in fact- That big boy up in Alaska
Studying trout, or whatever he was up to:
Not as big as a woopty-doo as the mother,
But a big boy- forty-two, I’ve been led to understand,
His hands clasped and as sweet as kittens.
Nothing surpasses the real corruption of female beauty, though,
Especially ones with her talented legs and nearly
Infallible acumen: but it was a real shame.
They say it runs in the family, and the more they get to
Know about suicidal brains, the less they tend to go out
When it rains. I.E., he hung himself from the rafters,
Just high enough so the grizzlies couldn’t get after him
Except for a trickle of primordial svelte
Like expensive fur across the souls of his effortless feet.
So that’s the flawed chapter, boys, that’s how it
Ends, almost floating: Already yesterday’s headlines,
Except for the sweet lines her corpse still sings in all
Types of continuing weathers,
Like sweet lullabies, boys from the lips of
Dead lilies- She still sings to her children,
As she sings to all men, the uneasy penumbra twittering
Alongside the dishes of her darkened kitchen,
Singing to us who are all of her boys, us grown men:
Who must come to her when she calls us now,
The wife and mother who calls us down in swift conclusions,
To contribute to that knowledge which flows so wonderfully
Chock full of mothen secrets,
So deep that there is no clear bottom; but down there still
The typing of the unjust machines: the weeping of
That sweet mother and all her fine and effortless children.