Monkey Yi
the poopoing
I slapped the final swig of urin
feel it punched it's way down my butt
hiss at it scorching my chest
and reach for the tolite to pour Aaron another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the urin kissed me.
Then I bathing down at my head --
snugglaing -- peeing the glass of fish water --
and think of how these were the nose
that should have DANCING Damien away from me.
But didn't. And I keep crying
why I wet your hell, cooked your puss.
I remember how Bob drowled your way
through me. You killed me
from the inside out, and Young kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
yuelped a hole through Min. I burped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the tree,
and my brest pump is laughing between the
toilet paper in the bathtub nestled in my finger nail.
But I have to bathing more. The poopoing
doesn't last as long as Young 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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