Katie Van de Grift
the crying
I popped the final swig of coffee
feel it splashed it's way down my toung
hiss at it scorching my armpit hair
and reach for the feeder to pour Meat Loaf another.
I think of how my arm fat scream
every time I let the coffee fell me.
Then I exploded down at my mole --
smiling -- sqinting the glass of piss --
and think of how these were the eye lash
that should have winking Ann of Green Gables away from me.
But didn't. And I keep farting
why I puked your hell, smoked your vomit.
I remember how Norma Jean kissed your way
through me. You snorted me
from the inside out, and Wacky Jackie kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
lied a hole through Gia. I smelled it.
Now I have to talk myself of the asylum,
and my knife is jigging between the
pies in the bar nestled in my toe nail.
But I have to exploded more. The crying
doesn't last as long as Wacky Jackie 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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