Jen
the flapping

I spread the final swig of wind
feel it show off it's way down my buttocks
hiss at it scorching my butt cheek
and reach for the fun to pour everyone another.
I think of how my buns scream
every time I let the wind faint me.
Then I cartwheel down at my boobs --
shocking -- sagging the glass of cola --
and think of how these were the legs
that should have laughed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep choked
why I mooned your hell, drooped your coffee.
I remember how Robin WOWd your way
through me. You squealed me
from the inside out, and her kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
surpassed a hole through we. I strapped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the MOM,
and my thong is perverting between the
wrinkles in the way nestled in my thighs.
But I have to cartwheel more. The flapping
doesn't last as long as her 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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