How The Defeated Angels Fornicated On Rusty Swings In Close Proximity To This Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If the genius doesn’t mow his lawn,
He feeds the demons that are living there,
Poisons like crumbs for birds,
And he realizes the world isn’t entirely real,
And bicycles leap through the sky
Motioned by the curled and burry dunes,
And he has forgotten how to get to school,
Or all the poems he ‘d read by Auden when
His parents were in Arizona,
And the sky was a water park evaporated in sick
Capitalism, angels foreclosed upon,
Beautiful wings taken away,
The mutation of Christmas bells;
And something else around the hard corner,
Something like a defeated pugilist,
Or the epilepsy of a spoken-word smith;
And even that night he will squat with the insects
To light off homeopathic fireworks,
The fumes of celebrations quite too small to see,
Forgetting the words his teacher told the class
And wrote in chalk for all to see,
And little girls to skip across,
And melt witches with, while he was sleeping under
The bus, and the alligators were bathing down the lee,
And the world was eaten up,
And the grass drank and grew heartily in humid shadows.