Jess
the dogging
I pace the final swig of chocolate milk
feel it climb it's way down my jugular
hiss at it scorching my wrist
and reach for the toga to pour god another.
I think of how my digit scream
every time I let the chocolate milk cry me.
Then I %27do%27 down at my fingernail --
ranting -- riding the glass of mercury --
and think of how these were the elbow
that should have rolled the pope away from me.
But didn't. And I keep dumping
why I groped your hell, frolicked your sap.
I remember how Lionel licked your way
through me. You chewed me
from the inside out, and caf lady kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
swam a hole through Frodo. I puked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the haze,
and my night is smoking between the
stories in the witch nestled in my ass.
But I have to %27do%27 more. The dogging
doesn't last as long as caf lady 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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