Every Friday night, The angry melodrama begins... Your slow, slurred speech. Drunken aristocratic poses. Trying to disguise your crassness. There was a time I loved your theatrics. Now I want out of this festering sore of a marriage. Terror stricken, I cower in the kitchen. Your voice melts chrome... and shatters the silence. Petulant self-importance takes root. Again your voice... "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. The music of our lives, avant-garde and out of pitch. The shock of the new becomes old......again. The smell of burnt roses. You inhaled the blue sky and vomited puke green. 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.