A Magazine Goes in a Gun--A Clip Goes in Your Hair

Stars fail to muster
as an alibi with eyes
spoken like a Spartan
layers the wood and glass
thick with dust

hence my apprehension
on which poisons to pick.

I gave her all I had
left over from the last.
I tried to sate her thirst
like Jim fucking Jones.
I cupped that little lapdog's head
its prancing not knowing goodbye.

Lips wet with gin
drop the night's last smoke
on thighs that part for carpet
and a burn that's accidental.

I was made in May
yet December's always promised.

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