Every Friday night,
the vulgar melodrama...
Your slow, slurred speech.
Drunken aristocratic poses.
Trying to disguise your crassness.
There was a time 
I loved your theatrics.

Terror stricken,
I cower in the kitchen.
Your voice melts chrome,
shatters the silence.
Your petulant self-importance takes root.

What I want.
What I wanted.
What.       I.         Want.

Your subversive playfulness
Once lovely and becoming,
now reduced to a test of endurance.
Like a aching tooth.
Doors slam, dishes crash.
Our music avant-garde,
and the shock of the new
becomes old again.

The smell of burnt roses.
You inhaled the blue sky
and vomited mauve.
Trombones bleat sour notes,
broken prisms bleed vertigo
patterns in my head.

What I want.
What I wanted....
What.              I.              Want.

Some ask why I don't smile anymore.
It's easy.
I live in Frownland.