Stream Of Perfumed Sentiment Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tonight a rum fetish putting rivers in my ears,
Cataracts and girls in streamline dresses enjoying the
Barrel rolls;
And tonight is nothing useful, only movies in black
And white of other nights:
The girls line up for the birth-rights and the airplanes
Slow:
So slow that I can count their revolutions by ear;
And their colors fall off of them like clothes on a line.
The sky is a valley in which they pine:
And it is beautiful to think of them over the heads of the
Girls.
I do not know which is more beautiful, the girls or
The airplanes, but they are all married and they smell like
Popcorn, or the greater devices of the simulacrum which
Still can only draw one or two things:
My two muses must be amongst them, tonight or another.
I remember her eyes swimming over wet clay:
I remember her lips on my neck on the way to the bookstore;
And all of it was a horrible dream in a rush hour
Of slow moving action returning from a church,
Returning from a graveyard smelling like popcorn,
In a stream of perfumed sentiment I wished I never had time to
Awaken from.