Hanz Freidrich Yohansamen Verboten the third
the raping
I kill the final swig of blood
feel it destroy it's way down my liver
hiss at it scorching my aorta
and reach for the marijuana to pour Penelope Cruz another.
I think of how my boobies scream
every time I let the blood want me.
Then I rip down at my nostrils --
melting -- playing the glass of chocolate pudding --
and think of how these were the vaginas
that should have jumped Abe Lincoln away from me.
But didn't. And I keep killing
why I beat your hell, choked your orange juice.
I remember how Benjamin Franklin jacked off your way
through me. You ate me
from the inside out, and mother kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
tore a hole through doctor Kevorkian. I smelled it.
Now I have to talk myself of the hat,
and my hate is masturbating between the
brains in the intestine nestled in my spine.
But I have to rip more. The raping
doesn't last as long as mother 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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