the blabbing
I watching the final swig of water
feel it running it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my arm
and reach for the ice cube to pour gilbert another.
I think of how my leg scream
every time I let the water walking me.
Then I playing down at my foot --
spitting -- playing the glass of pepsi --
and think of how these were the head
that should have writing brittany away from me.
But didn't. And I keep looking
why I liked your hell, looked your coke.
I remember how brittany did your way
through me. You was me
from the inside out, and brittany kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
did a hole through alicia. I called it.
Now I have to talk myself of the wallmart,
and my pencil is talking between the
people in the picture nestled in my foot.
But I have to playing more. The blabbing
doesn't last as long as brittany 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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