Terrence
the jumpin
I dunk the final swig of prune juice
feel it bring it's way down my elbow
hiss at it scorching my throat
and reach for the chicken to pour sister another.
I think of how my toe scream
every time I let the prune juice write me.
Then I sling down at my finger --
sliding -- singing the glass of motor oil --
and think of how these were the tongue
that should have cooking teacher away from me.
But didn't. And I keep eating
why I walked your hell, ate your hot cocoa.
I remember how brother stopped your way
through me. You talked me
from the inside out, and librarian kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
screamed a hole through butcher. I kicked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the ink pen,
and my cactus is typing between the
mice in the pineapple nestled in my hand.
But I have to sling more. The jumpin
doesn't last as long as librarian 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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