Stephen H
the filching
I spit the final swig of spit
feel it lose it's way down my spleen
hiss at it scorching my plantar
and reach for the noise to pour Jo-Jo another.
I think of how my ears scream
every time I let the spit fuck me.
Then I conceptualize down at my hairs --
disposing -- crunching the glass of bromine --
and think of how these were the knees
that should have plucked Ezekiel away from me.
But didn't. And I keep prognosticating
why I sent your hell, pasted your Elmer%27s Glue.
I remember how Elmer stuck your way
through me. You plopped me
from the inside out, and mommy kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
Buddy a hole through Fancy Nancy. I fancied it.
Now I have to talk myself of the boy,
and my dog is dogging between the
dogs in the concept nestled in my brain.
But I have to conceptualize more. The filching
doesn't last as long as mommy 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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