JOSEPH
the FUCKING
I RUN the final swig of VODKA
feel it KILL it's way down my EYE
hiss at it scorching my TAIL
and reach for the DOG to pour TREVOR another.
I think of how my ARMS scream
every time I let the VODKA POOP me.
Then I KILL down at my LEGS --
RUNNING -- KILLING the glass of BEER --
and think of how these were the WINGS
that should have KILLED TREVOR away from me.
But didn't. And I keep SHOOTING
why I RAN your hell, RAN your VODKA.
I remember how TINY TIM RAN your way
through me. You DRANK me
from the inside out, and SCROOGE kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
SHOT a hole through JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. I SHOT it.
Now I have to talk myself of the CAT,
and my DOG is KILLING between the
DOGS in the TREV nestled in my PINKY.
But I have to KILL more. The FUCKING
doesn't last as long as SCROOGE do(es).
---
Original poem:
the burning
(written June 8, 1989)
I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.
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