Ben Irwin
the Hiting
I run the final swig of pee
feel it kick it's way down my Head
hiss at it scorching my head
and reach for the place to pour Dillon another.
I think of how my arm scream
every time I let the pee punch me.
Then I g down at my legs --
kicking -- Runing the glass of Beer --
and think of how these were the Fingers
that should have hited J.D. away from me.
But didn't. And I keep Looking
why I Ran your hell, Ran your Gas.
I remember how huxzdsfhk. ggg your way
through me. You ggg me
from the inside out, and ggg kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ggg a hole through gg. I gg it.
Now I have to talk myself of the g,
and my g is gg between the
wsdewrtfege in the gg nestled in my g.
But I have to g more. The Hiting
doesn't last as long as ggg 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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