Lindsay
the pumping
I splash the final swig of bleach
feel it frolick it's way down my back
hiss at it scorching my mouth
and reach for the candy shop to pour Q Man another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the bleach dodge me.
Then I ski down at my fingers --
swallow -- singing the glass of lava --
and think of how these were the ass cheeks
that should have suck Jeff Foxworthy away from me.
But didn't. And I keep punch
why I stumbled your hell, studied your bug spray.
I remember how Ron White bitch slapped your way
through me. You humped me
from the inside out, and Larry the Cable Guy kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
kissed a hole through Bill Engvall. I floated it.
Now I have to talk myself of the ointment,
and my joint is smelling between the
chop shops in the banana hammock nestled in my tongue.
But I have to ski more. The pumping
doesn't last as long as Larry the Cable Guy 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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