shane
the butchering
I limp the final swig of amonia
feel it fall it's way down my orifice
hiss at it scorching my stomach
and reach for the acid to pour mr green another.
I think of how my feet scream
every time I let the amonia backflip me.
Then I knick down at my kidneys --
spewing -- firing the glass of liquid nitrogen --
and think of how these were the femurs
that should have compacted george yang away from me.
But didn't. And I keep succeeding
why I aquited your hell, died your mineral oil.
I remember how i slew your way
through me. You macked me
from the inside out, and prince kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
pwned a hole through the pope. I craved it.
Now I have to talk myself of the naked mole rat,
and my poison ivy is infecting between the
pregnany women in the vaccine nestled in my womb.
But I have to knick more. The butchering
doesn't last as long as prince 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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