the hugging
I kick the final swig of pee
feel it jump it's way down my lips
hiss at it scorching my elbow
and reach for the fork to pour fallon another.
I think of how my neck scream
every time I let the pee swing me.
Then I kiss down at my boob --
bouncing -- jiggling the glass of spit --
and think of how these were the head
that should have rubbed shelby away from me.
But didn't. And I keep spanking
why I looked your hell, smiled your spit.
I remember how katy ran your way
through me. You skipped me
from the inside out, and george kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
played a hole through brandy. I kissed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the hicky,
and my cuddle buddy is tickling between the
laughing in the bed nestled in my cute fingers.
But I have to kiss more. The hugging
doesn't last as long as george 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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