You can't rely on other gums to
cut your holiday teeth, kid.
  Or the harmless promise in
clear-bottle drowning, and

  how it all starts with a Saturday
    gasp. In the fatter part of the
night, you talk tall, stand,
and finetune your hips for bridges.

  Here comes the London
burning, the head is blooming
and only thirsty. From here,
it's unashamed to get you

and oh, it just gets too easy for
  the switch to lift your clothes
     right off. Collapse, arrest; and the
smoke screws you over

again.

   You can't rely on a hotwater
morning to clean your open
eyes, kid. Or the pious return
to an innocent bed, with

your lips only dormant, the
smoking gun. And you pretend
   your witching hour is
just a phase.