The Waking

You’ve been making yourself sick again.
Patronymic yellow, a man’s best friend;
I have this great distaste for the ages
And I shall bellow from my aberrant soul
A rail against all travails, your spume

And your foam, his wife and the world;
Her maiden voyage, champagne soaked,
Dried up rivers, bare oxbows;
For easy forsaking abundance is made –
Old time lore, there she blows.

You pushed that dire emetic back in
From where it did flow;
Absolved the sins in doing so,
Excesses of the long-since dead
On to our living transposed.

Sleep only ever satisfies the waking.