the pooping
I scarf the final swig of diarrhea
feel it poke it's way down my earlobe
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the jewel to pour po po another.
I think of how my pubic hairs scream
every time I let the diarrhea sing me.
Then I crap down at my butt hairs --
squeezing -- romping the glass of snot --
and think of how these were the kidneys
that should have farted James Bond away from me.
But didn't. And I keep faking
why I pooped your hell, yodeled your pee.
I remember how principal drooled your way
through me. You pissed me
from the inside out, and count dracula kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
frenched a hole through miss piggy. I plopped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dungeon,
and my carrot is throwing between the
tires in the space nestled in my belly button.
But I have to crap more. The pooping
doesn't last as long as count dracula 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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