Adam Barrows
the dipping
I boucne the final swig of butter
feel it shove it's way down my nostril
hiss at it scorching my pancreas
and reach for the penmanship to pour Marilyn Manson another.
I think of how my joints scream
every time I let the butter grab me.
Then I sing down at my ears --
punting -- fluffing the glass of buttermilk --
and think of how these were the toes
that should have timed Adam Sandler away from me.
But didn't. And I keep licking
why I threw your hell, sniffed your Mountain Dew.
I remember how Gabe Newell thought your way
through me. You beat me
from the inside out, and Fredreic Chopin kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
pulled a hole through Alex. I sipped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the mall,
and my Half-Life 3 is playing between the
snakes in the Adam%27s mom nestled in my toe-webbing.
But I have to sing more. The dipping
doesn't last as long as Fredreic Chopin 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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