Writing On You With Nothing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Writing On You With Nothing



If I have had undiminished thoughts of you,
It is because your body is yet old-
Taught and wired in its cages, I drive around like the
Other men,
My fingers hungry to undress you in the voyeuristic
Boudoir of things that just happen to be real:
That is why I try to get the highest score in ancient
Video games,
Why I color Mighty Mouse- and then when dreaming
With wine strummed lips, break into
Empty affluent houses, and float in the pools like
Giant cut stones of butchered deity tears:
And I'll love you until you aren't beautiful,
And in your bedroom's success, an older sister,
I'll lift your shirt and run my fingers along those ventures,
The vermilion and crimson and chartreuse scars
You hoped that nobody would see,
But I'll run along them and put yard snails on them
And call out their depths,
And then your eyes will close like obnoxious children
Sleeping,
Because then you wouldn't have anymore use believing
All the falsehood they tried to show you,
That I can better show you- snuck into your house like
A wiry dragon,
Swinging there in your indigo moats of porcelain
Dolls and indigo headdresses,
Your divine inheritance as well as what I have added
By writing on you with nothing.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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