So drunk, <br />I can feel the rattlesnakes slender <br />Tongue like a pen, <br />Unwary, licking my palm, <br />And my stillborn school mates teaching classes <br />And getting doctorates up in <br />Saint Louise, well formed; <br />And tomorrow will be ugly, <br />Now that baseball is over, <br />And I’ve had enough liquor for the night. <br />I just want to masturbate, <br />But I don’t do drugs: <br />And the poems are good, but I still cant spell <br />Bouquet: <br />There, I just did, <br />And my muses are both higher in latitude than me, <br />Though one just so, <br />And they are so beautiful, like creatures of the gardened <br />Forest, <br />They hardly even know; and they will love their <br />Men venally and sickly unto a ripe old age, <br />While I continue serenading them from my <br />Weedy church like a iceberg creeping and biting its <br />Lip, <br />Looking at all the tainted fish in this canal, <br />Trying to figure out how to get to the other side, <br />To undress her, <br />And lick her down like ice-cream <br />Like outlawed taffy, <br />While still remaining pure, <br />Like the light of the moon, <br />Or anything.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moon-or-anything/
