For Lack of Combat Hospital

Watching grainy clips
of broken-nailed debauchery.
The actress is familiar.
The mattress is the same.

Shaky-handed camerawork
exceeds the poor direction.
The script that wrote itself
loops like alibis in hell.

Bracelets clang and jangle
for a score without an orchestra.
She pulls her hair behind an ear.
An artist at her best.

Laying on a flank
lethality in hand
until is milked an offering.
Stalactites hang
like dish soap.

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