forgash
the painting
I draw the final swig of ink
feel it erase it's way down my elbow
hiss at it scorching my knee
and reach for the paintbrush to pour marci another.
I think of how my big toes scream
every time I let the ink stub me.
Then I j down at my nostrils --
smelling -- washing the glass of dish soap --
and think of how these were the j
that should have jk j away from me.
But didn't. And I keep j
why I j your hell, j your j.
I remember how j j your way
through me. You jj me
from the inside out, and j kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
j a hole through j. I j it.
Now I have to talk myself of the j,
and my j is j between the
jj in the j nestled in my j.
But I have to j more. The painting
doesn't last as long as j 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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