Domestic Vogue

We are delicate fainting women shrouded
in autumn silk, hiding long black
tentacles that pulverize
the eyes that are so enamored by
the cloth, falling like leaves-- swish,
swish, to the hard wood floor.

You're pulling wings off butterflies
for science and for fun; a sadistic
experiment to scrutinize the naked torsos
as they whither and die-- a pile
of golden yellow and speckled auburn
red, kicked into the corner.

Happy New Year

Raise your glasses brimmed
with the good wine from yesteryear
dark burnt-orange,
that tastes like fire.

It's burning the house down;
plaster spit spats, and the
paint melts and dribbles down the walls
like bile down a bulimic's chin,
puddling on the floor, a rainbow
of designer oil slick.

You retch and retch, throats smoldering,
engulfed in flames; but relishing
its age and class, toasting
Skies the limit! Never
look back! We'll remodel
again, this year.