Forever Far Away Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are so many words that hardly give
Good excuses;
Even Rudyard Kipling cant write a good poem,
And I’ve drunken tonight-
And I have to pee
In my bunk in the RV,
While the old teachers study the night,
While the fruit waits restless upon the shoe polished
Tables,
And I hate my father, but yet I have saved so much money,
And I think of the same old things,
The two muses of my disease,
One venal and one sick, and I curse them and
Whatever they are doing tonight,
And the pictures they take of their beautiful visages
Like a garden well content and fluttering in the
High basins,
And even now I can hear the traffic, and I want to live
Forever like a cheap kite with delusions that he is
An angel,
Or whatever he is: I don’t even have a house,
And I’ve never seen the sea, but I could move her
And shimmy up next to the graveyards and
Their sweet pornographies;
And drink rum under the fake penumbras that never
Charge you extra,
And your name is S-, or E-,
But whoever you are tonight, you are carefully insouciant
In your sweet titted playgrounds and you are
Forever far away from me.