Matt
the Flying
I jump the final swig of pee
feel it bellyflopped it's way down my finger
hiss at it scorching my tounge
and reach for the tomato to pour Ms. Kirk another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the pee swim me.
Then I play down at my finger Nails --
farting -- scrathing the glass of chemicals --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have farted Dalton away from me.
But didn't. And I keep looking
why I saw your hell, looked your saliva.
I remember how Mike hurted your way
through me. You sung me
from the inside out, and Sydney kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
Matt a hole through Joc. I fried it.
Now I have to talk myself of the CN Tower,
and my desk is running between the
fats in the lunchbox nestled in my butt.
But I have to play more. The Flying
doesn't last as long as Sydney 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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