Jeff Johnston
the pooping
I smack the final swig of gasoline
feel it jump it's way down my neck
hiss at it scorching my back
and reach for the computer to pour Carl Suppo another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the gasoline fly me.
Then I yawn down at my arms --
farting -- running the glass of Mr. Pib --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have played Mr. Brisko away from me.
But didn't. And I keep sleeping
why I ate your hell, worked your Johnson and Johnson hand lotion.
I remember how Ellen Degenerous spank your way
through me. You wack me
from the inside out, and your mom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
streach a hole through Superman. I flew it.
Now I have to talk myself of the building,
and my christmas tree is falling between the
light bulbs in the New York nestled in my butt.
But I have to yawn more. The pooping
doesn't last as long as your mom 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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