The Venemously Homeless Convictions Of Sad Runaways Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Apologies,
Because I am drunk- and not fit to appease
Anything else,
Not even conjugating the Old Swedish from the
Forever bruised lips of prepubescent vampires;
And, getting to it,
I am not Jack Micheline,
I am not even his caricatures of Baudelaire;
But I am figuring out the silver plane of Midwest
Swing sets over the transplanted thistles,
And I am going to finish this rum,
Even if I don’t look good doing it (But I do!) ,
And I am going to move to Saint Louis,
Further away from the transitory migrations of
Poisonous butterflies straight over the octogenarian
Deserts of Arizona,
And into the truly boreal Mexico,
Where you wont be able to tell any difference between
Me and the innocent lovelies;
And I have written novels to which there
Is no use for,
And I am like Mark Twain’s older brother, Orion,
Such the fickle constellation,
And I am nothing better than the working middle class,
And that is where I will soon end up because it is where
I belong,
Leaving me to get drunk and to only imagine
The roller coaster amusements upon either coast;
And if I could get to her I surely would,
Because I love her, and the children I could have mined
From plowing her fertile menstruations,
The fine exegesis I could have performed accomplice to
Briar Rabbit deep in the purple thorns;
And I am in love with a girl name Erin,
But she’s been letting a toned bouncer muscle through
Her fleshy door,
Zooming through her Missouri caves which the likeliest
Of children must soon explore;
And Kelly is married, and my ex-girlfriend I will not do,
And I have poems in homeopathic words which pretend to
Heal,
And there are girls in Oregon,
And cousins in Idaho- And in Atlanta there isn’t a virgin
I do not know;
And there in the rich fertile rows of orange groves
And sweet-cigarette terrapin, or down
Further south into the sweltering reptilian pens of beady
Eyed crocodiles
I will lie down my pen,
And let my heart ululate in alterative rhythm next to
My earth;
She will let her child suckle tight upon her breasts pressed
Up close to the base of Colorado,
The rhapsodies of her newborn and the mishap
Ghost of a Siamese twin,
An abortive novel, half finished in unbaked clays,
But perhaps my pains will skip like stones off the underbelly
Lakes of commercial airplanes
Before I am shut up and strangled by the usurper lips
Of these evil flowers,
The venomously homeless convictions of sad runaways
Fitfully destined to recompose their lives forever
Rebeatingly bilious beneath her
Perpetually blooming nocturnal hours, furrowing the shifts
Of her unjustly weeping desires….