Rob
the fucking
I smacking the final swig of cum
feel it eating it's way down my vigina
hiss at it scorching my eyes
and reach for the cheerleader to pour janiter another.
I think of how my breasts scream
every time I let the cum shoot me.
Then I suck down at my penises --
thrusting -- riding the glass of soapy water --
and think of how these were the lips
that should have pricked Brad away from me.
But didn't. And I keep drooling
why I foundled your hell, pictured your urin.
I remember how father ate your way
through me. You screwed me
from the inside out, and daughter kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
cummed a hole through Antwan. I watched it.
Now I have to talk myself of the camera,
and my kitchen is beating between the
people in the video tape nestled in my dick.
But I have to suck more. The fucking
doesn't last as long as daughter 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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