The Land of Sour Milk and Honey

I set myself up, by putting
Myself out
Amongst mealy-mouthed mosquitoes,
The parasites chomping the spit, spat out
Relishing in her disgrace.

A cake, a candle, a celebration
Is in order. Or perhaps a funeral.
Black dresses and black suits adorn
The congregation in attendance.
Blasphemy! Maybe a hymn?

May she quiver in quietism, below
Ground, while the misses and misters
Hover above her casket, her cake
Missing the piece they ate
In her token honor. Her pink

Negligee torn. A game piece. Spent on a machine
Called life. The ambivalent attitudes
Forego the special occasion.
Babies to attend to. Sockets to
Fiddle with. Might I electrocute myself?