Emoting With No Tomb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dashed in crippled sauces-
Doing the juvenile bliss, every word is
A miss throw,
The bases are loaded with lisp:
And I loved a green dragon fly on the areola
Of a charge-
Or it was a blue beamer tucked under the
Olive groves,
The banshees mowed the seashore,
The anemones were claret and really poetic:
The selky taught all her boyish otters
The hook and the throw-
Going down to her was a long ways down to
Her,
And all over her other suitors were using motorized
Vehicles; I guess being transcendental
Was a mistake-
That yellow snake in my soul hissed the phosphorous
Of pornographic technology-
The movie stars so beautiful all suped up with
Scientology:
And by the time I got down to the last devilish ring,
It wasn’t my name she was singing,
But I got to watch by the shore
As my uncle lectured-
I must have thought I was really clever-
I probably thought I would last forever; but then
They had to close her down,
And all the apples trucked away- and I grew a beard and
Forgot who I was, ate bred with no mayonnaise;
Baudelaire laughed top court, flatulent in his sway,
But I didn’t look up,
I could smell her perfumes all over his switch;
He, the grave, the plot who had beaten me forever
And disproved that I was of his family that should live
Forever,
But just the plastic flower that should swing in fits,
Without oils or insects of my own,
Just something gone along the trail,
Her pigtails swung and boomed from
That venal master’s lips-
Her echoes the crass bassoon, the teal persuaded;
And I was left emoting
With no tomb.