Erin
the banging

I spin the final swig of crunk juice
feel it shake it's way down my ass
hiss at it scorching my arm pit
and reach for the deoderant to pour Lil jon another.
I think of how my boobs scream
every time I let the crunk juice crunk me.
Then I wave down at my legs --
pimping -- cracking the glass of red bull --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have fixed Ellen Rockey away from me.
But didn't. And I keep drinking
why I spun your hell, sang your wd40.
I remember how Sean Pooji shook your way
through me. You drank me
from the inside out, and Erin Deuel kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
moved a hole through Vin Diesel. I slapped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pacifire,
and my dice is throwing between the
countries in the button nestled in my toes.
But I have to wave more. The banging
doesn't last as long as Erin Deuel 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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