Bingles and Boys

Oh love, I do dream of you often.
Always the same: vodka stains on my dress,
your teeth gritted like the night terror
that grinds upon my eyes.
When I cry it is more like the scrape
of my car on a car and there you are,
chipped beneath the wheels.
And convulsing.

The past rears up like a stallion.
Its mane of gushing gold from here
is less like rotten teeth,
And I want it, but the night is never restful.
Darling, I have not been safe.
I curl up in bed like a crown,
and hope that breathing
is not a risk.
written: Friday 24th November 2006, 11:26pm.

It sounds like the poem holds a lot of pain. You did a good job with the metaphors. The end seems a little out of place with the rest of it though. Even though the meaning isn't, the words seem gentle in comparison to the rest of the poem. Maybe you meant for it to be this way though, for effect.
Overall an intriguing work.

The pain is almost tangible in this poem, it sticks to the back of your throat, leaving a raw feeling there. The emotion is real...I like it, a lot.

I enjoyed it, but I don't think a "golden" mane, for example, suits the rest of the tone of this poem that - excepting that one word - you have rightfully upheld.