kurt
the bitching

I hitting the final swig of blood
feel it punching it's way down my neck
hiss at it scorching my arm
and reach for the house to pour carla another.
I think of how my leg scream
every time I let the blood torn me.
Then I cumed down at my ass --
rafishing -- hitting the glass of blood --
and think of how these were the pussy
that should have smelling carla away from me.
But didn't. And I keep fucking
why I fucked your hell, fucked your blood.
I remember how carla ignored your way
through me. You jumped me
from the inside out, and carla kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
sucked a hole through carla. I humped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the park,
and my swing set is sucking between the
buldings in the table nestled in my vagina.
But I have to cumed more. The bitching
doesn't last as long as carla 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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