gabby
the skiing

I run the final swig of goo
feel it walk it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for the bracelet to pour ginny another.
I think of how my pinky toe scream
every time I let the goo shoot me.
Then I flick down at my fingers --
gushing -- sinking the glass of water --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have limped god away from me.
But didn't. And I keep yelling
why I ran your hell, climbed your tea.
I remember how peter blew your way
through me. You flew me
from the inside out, and bob kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
twinkled a hole through poppy. I jumped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the house,
and my horse is running between the
grass in the octopus nestled in my toe.
But I have to flick more. The skiing
doesn't last as long as bob 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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