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.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...