The liquor doesn't bite anymore,
it comes over me,
in a flowering,
a thunder-wave.

I have dreams of killing him,
with a chainsaw and a rose,
the rose for you
to place
over the tendrils of his separated neck.

Or smashing his face
into a stone lion's mouth,
then forcing him,
inch by wriggling inch
into a granite maw,
trapped forever
behind the vicious wardens
of stone canines and cement incisors.

I usually dream drunk,
too wild in myself,
to roam the day sober.

So, work is drunk;
eating is drunk;
breathing is drunk;

Orange juice spiked,
ready to go.

Meatloaf dinner; date with milk, *****, and sweating
at five.

Can't you see the carnage?

The flotsam;
The raft of bodies
of stupid, pale men
who give out their positions
to hateful women.