the laughing
I crawl the final swig of cola
feel it climb it's way down my mouth
hiss at it scorching my elbow
and reach for the tie to pour me another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the cola walk me.
Then I eat down at my eyes --
living -- creating the glass of water --
and think of how these were the feet
that should have played you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep sitting
why I bought your hell, slept your coffee.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You hoped me
from the inside out, and me kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
saw a hole through him. I dreamed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the friend,
and my key is picking between the
locks in the dog nestled in my hand.
But I have to eat more. The laughing
doesn't last as long as me 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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