shotmutt
the gagging

I strum the final swig of slobber
feel it grin it's way down my tooth
hiss at it scorching my fin
and reach for the trick to pour Patsy another.
I think of how my caps scream
every time I let the slobber clasp me.
Then I harvest down at my trunk --
Striding -- shouting the glass of citrus --
and think of how these were the globes
that should have bopped Archangel away from me.
But didn't. And I keep probing
why I freed your hell, lumbered your seafoam.
I remember how Merm engulfed your way
through me. You aged me
from the inside out, and Skappy kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
hooved a hole through Ghost. I peaked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the shield,
and my traschcan is mapped between the
dancers in the ice nestled in my stem.
But I have to harvest more. The gagging
doesn't last as long as Skappy 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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