We yearn for the chefs of daydreams
to supply us the taste of sweet gravy,
yet we sit in the teeth of winter
so happily halving a baby.

You,
eyes narrow
as spelunking tunnels
littered with the bones
of bow-legged explorers,
your turkey cutter
buzzzzzzing
like a wasp orgy
( trapped )
in a devil-sent vibrator.

Me,
mouth foaming
like a saffron sea
splashing a cold beach
of dead/dying seagulls,
my axe blade
shimmering
like rediscovered beauty
after a one hundred year war
where ugliness prevailed.

The baby,
bald and calm,
still, painted eyes,
no silly goo-goos
just a chilling silence
and the soft drip drip
of scarlet on the snow.

We yearn for the werewolves of daydreams
to stalk what we think and believe,
killing the savage desires we carry
and sorting our wants from our needs.

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