oliver
the sliding
I smelly the final swig of oringe juice
feel it repulsing it's way down my eye ball
hiss at it scorching my toe nail
and reach for the goates to pour sistor another.
I think of how my fingers scream
every time I let the oringe juice heales me.
Then I niccce down at my toes --
healing -- fighting the glass of walter --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have jumping jessica away from me.
But didn't. And I keep hummping
why I killed your hell, pumped your tomato juice.
I remember how old bill loved your way
through me. You hated me
from the inside out, and mother kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
lactated a hole through father. I consterpated it.
Now I have to talk myself of the lippy,
and my nose hire trimmers is kising between the
sheep in the table top dancer nestled in my hart .
But I have to niccce more. The sliding
doesn't last as long as mother 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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