the knocking

I kiss the final swig of spit
feel it jump it's way down my neck
hiss at it scorching my hand
and reach for the safety pin to pour Tom another.
I think of how my lips scream
every time I let the spit juggle me.
Then I shiver down at my knees --
sweating -- bouncing the glass of rum --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have slapped Bobs away from me.
But didn't. And I keep spinning
why I slept your hell, peed your pee.
I remember how Mo yawned your way
through me. You burped me
from the inside out, and George Bush kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
drank a hole through Hillary Clinton. I cried it.
Now I have to talk myself of the apple,
and my ball is playing between the
rocks in the jet nestled in my ass.
But I have to shiver more. The knocking
doesn't last as long as George Bush 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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