nanny
the meandering
I halt the final swig of anti-freeze
feel it stalk it's way down my chin
hiss at it scorching my knee
and reach for the manifesto to pour francis bacon another.
I think of how my nails scream
every time I let the anti-freeze grieve me.
Then I judge down at my knuckles --
grimacing -- acting the glass of orange juice --
and think of how these were the eyelashes
that should have housed lucian freud away from me.
But didn't. And I keep surveilling
why I dominated your hell, yielded your paint.
I remember how hal hartley whispers your way
through me. You lost me
from the inside out, and Beatrix Potter kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
veered a hole through Robert Crumb. I subsidized it.
Now I have to talk myself of the nebraska,
and my context is branding between the
objects in the property nestled in my tongue.
But I have to judge more. The meandering
doesn't last as long as Beatrix Potter 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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