Amylyn
the skippinh
I pretty the final swig of wine
feel it dumb it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my wang
and reach for the Mom to pour Mel another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the wine sucking me.
Then I have down at my fingers --
going -- spitting the glass of piss --
and think of how these were the arms
that should have caused Marty away from me.
But didn't. And I keep pulling
why I used your hell, lied your mouth wash.
I remember how Kari did your way
through me. You went me
from the inside out, and Shannon kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
did a hole through Brittany. I had it.
Now I have to talk myself of the Gravenhurst,
and my home is lying between the
marbles in the a ball nestled in my butt.
But I have to have more. The skippinh
doesn't last as long as Shannon 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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