David Chanthilath
the Farting
I Slide the final swig of Pee
feel it Run it's way down my Achamees
hiss at it scorching my Buns
and reach for the Cat to pour Micheal Jackson another.
I think of how my Eye Ball scream
every time I let the Pee Jog me.
Then I Slap down at my Nose --
Jogging -- Walking the glass of Oil --
and think of how these were the Head
that should have Talking Janet Jackson away from me.
But didn't. And I keep Stabbibg
why I Ran your hell, Slid your Water.
I remember how Marie Chanthilath Screech your way
through me. You Stabed me
from the inside out, and Hagler Chanthilath kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
Crawled a hole through Lisa Simpson. I Thought it.
Now I have to talk myself of the Pop Can,
and my Poo is Threwing between the
Clocks in the Cinderblock nestled in my Hairy leg.
But I have to Slap more. The Farting
doesn't last as long as Hagler Chanthilath 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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