the dripping

I running the final swig of cranberry juice
feel it singing it's way down my femer
hiss at it scorching my clavacle
and reach for the cat to pour Ms W another.
I think of how my spin scream
every time I let the cranberry juice spinning me.
Then I jump down at my eyes --
skipping -- swimming the glass of water --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have shopping Mary away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wanting
why I danced your hell, walked your milk.
I remember how Doug laughed your way
through me. You slid me
from the inside out, and Jaime kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
hopped a hole through Taylor. I shivered it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dogs,
and my children is prancing between the
glasses in the shoes nestled in my nose.
But I have to jump more. The dripping
doesn't last as long as Jaime 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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