Erin
the frolicking
I bitch the final swig of jiz
feel it binge it's way down my pinky toe
hiss at it scorching my ear lobe
and reach for the poop to pour Don Vito another.
I think of how my eye brows scream
every time I let the jiz pluck me.
Then I sucked down at my butt cheeks --
suffocating -- lubing the glass of ky --
and think of how these were the nipples
that should have boned The Pope away from me.
But didn't. And I keep masterbating
why I cleansed your hell, liquidated your v8 splash.
I remember how nick lachey squatted your way
through me. You released me
from the inside out, and sarah weber kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
royal fucked a hole through hot caf boy. I swam it.
Now I have to talk myself of the canada,
and my ass hair is waxing between the
mexican jumping beans in the cinderella nestled in my arm pit.
But I have to sucked more. The frolicking
doesn't last as long as sarah weber 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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