Jenifer42o
the poooping

I poked the final swig of tinkle juice
feel it grip it's way down my tongue
hiss at it scorching my chub a lub
and reach for the sticky note to pour Cracker Jack another.
I think of how my ear lobes scream
every time I let the tinkle juice flap me.
Then I wish down at my retinas --
crapping -- creeping the glass of arm pit sweat --
and think of how these were the pickles
that should have squished me away from me.
But didn't. And I keep exploding
why I licked your hell, popped your milk.
I remember how seemore butts rocked your way
through me. You bugged me
from the inside out, and goat man kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
mop a hole through mr. cheese fluffer. I flopped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the potty,
and my dead fishy is burping between the
lolly pops in the candy shhhlong nestled in my finger nail shaving.
But I have to wish more. The poooping
doesn't last as long as goat man 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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