Isadora
the runing
I quite the final swig of whisky
feel it run it's way down my neck
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the new york to pour Trae another.
I think of how my butt scream
every time I let the whisky swing me.
Then I typed down at my head --
drinking -- dancing the glass of water --
and think of how these were the nose
that should have farting Butch away from me.
But didn't. And I keep standing
why I burped your hell, sang your milk.
I remember how sadira sung your way
through me. You wrote me
from the inside out, and Bridget kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
drove a hole through William. I pooped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the telephone,
and my car is dancing between the
pen in the radio nestled in my eye.
But I have to typed more. The runing
doesn't last as long as Bridget 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.
Problems with this page? Then deal with it...