Shotglass Eyes

These things are the things,
the rings, the black slings
of the puffpaint kings;
slicked thickly on beneath the. . .

the blink.

She stares careless, bared,
bare-assed to the wheeze
with the snatch-scratch catch
against knock-eyed knees.

Say what?

Repeat that, please.

These things are the things
the hangover brings,
the bulging bloodshot on the
severnerve strings once blue;
made red on the care-stare bare

(mixed up margarita mixed up)

to the floor.
All she sees any more
with the wide. . .

the wide eye.

These things are the things--

drink

--AKL 2006