Poem: Pursuit of the ideal (updated 1x)

Second draft, much better and shorter than the first. By one of my nyms who doesn't usually write free verse.

Update 9/6/2011: revised end, which was a bit too grotesque even for a surreal poem.

Pursuit of the ideal

O my goddess manifests and she wears a black shirt with crimson flowers and brown men's loafers
she stumbles down the stairs from heaven and carelessly scorches my arm with her cigarette
she is a glass too far a whirling bed a humming head
she turns dreams into tarot cards and tarot cards into cranberries and cranberries into Christmas
she is a surround of cicadas and mosquito smog and a bat in the kitchen
when I cut myself shaving she reads my character in the bloodblot on the bandage and she is perfectly wrong
she pries up the floorboards to see what I've hidden and hopes it's very bad
she is a clan quarreling in seven languages and a black dog that barks through the night
she left her footsteps in the hallway and turned all my wine to water
I can never again get drunk without her

-- Adam Ives