the fading
I crave the final swig of blood
feel it compose it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my soul
and reach for the poem to pour stephanie another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the blood interrupt me.
Then I be down at my veins --
searching -- floating the glass of water --
and think of how these were the bones
that should have howled nancy away from me.
But didn't. And I keep believing
why I forgot your hell, emptied your oil.
I remember how stephanie remembered your way
through me. You bathed me
from the inside out, and the muse kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
wore a hole through the trickster. I realized it.
Now I have to talk myself of the scar,
and my paper is floating between the
melodies in the brick nestled in my lips.
But I have to be more. The fading
doesn't last as long as the muse 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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