FrankMantooth2000
the panting
I kiss the final swig of bile
feel it swim it's way down my elbow
hiss at it scorching my earlobe
and reach for the fence to pour abe lincoln another.
I think of how my stomachs scream
every time I let the bile ache me.
Then I find down at my feet --
dripping -- digesting the glass of coffee --
and think of how these were the fingernail
that should have hearing james brown away from me.
But didn't. And I keep sweating
why I hanged your hell, shot your blood.
I remember how clint eastwood caught your way
through me. You sighed me
from the inside out, and david bowie kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
delivered a hole through joe montana. I chopped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the grass,
and my lampshade is stared between the
breasts in the skirt nestled in my clitoris.
But I have to find more. The panting
doesn't last as long as david bowie 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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