the moulting
I striate the final swig of magma
feel it bludgeon it's way down my nipple
hiss at it scorching my uvula
and reach for the boudoir to pour Miss Carmen Miranda another.
I think of how my stubble scream
every time I let the magma emote me.
Then I enthuse down at my secretions --
swallowing -- running the glass of acid rain --
and think of how these were the toenails
that should have sated Brian Railsback away from me.
But didn't. And I keep grinding
why I struck your hell, mouthed your milk.
I remember how Slutty Hairdresser ransomed your way
through me. You admired me
from the inside out, and Pauline kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
wrote a hole through Jonas. I spelled it.
Now I have to talk myself of the window,
and my earthquake is shaking between the
nipples in the encyclopedia nestled in my chin.
But I have to enthuse more. The moulting
doesn't last as long as Pauline 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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