bam
the paly

I him the final swig of sad
feel it kick it's way down my loop
hiss at it scorching my judge
and reach for the crap to pour bam another.
I think of how my bam scream
every time I let the sad kill me.
Then I jump down at my hike --
died -- fat the glass of garadge --
and think of how these were the walk
that should have car ma away from me.
But didn't. And I keep core
why I dog your hell, cat your talk.
I remember how jump laphe your way
through me. You year me
from the inside out, and last kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
tipe a hole through pipe. I wise it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pise,
and my ca is hike between the
jump in the ghv nestled in my ty.
But I have to jump more. The paly
doesn't last as long as last 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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