John
the shutting
I sit the final swig of honey
feel it play it's way down my ankle
hiss at it scorching my stomach
and reach for the house to pour Geroge Dubbya another.
I think of how my fingers scream
every time I let the honey help me.
Then I love down at my toes --
smelling -- listening the glass of water --
and think of how these were the ears
that should have tried Jessica Alba away from me.
But didn't. And I keep petted
why I hear your hell, walked your juice.
I remember how your mom tasted your way
through me. You told me
from the inside out, and his mom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
did a hole through someone gay. I liked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the gum,
and my hair tie is putting between the
wiskers in the smile nestled in my eye.
But I have to love more. The shutting
doesn't last as long as his mom 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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