the smoking
I run the final swig of koolaid
feel it walk it's way down my tongue
hiss at it scorching my eyeball
and reach for the house to pour satin another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the koolaid sit me.
Then I sailing down at my ears --
pooping -- running the glass of pee --
and think of how these were the arms
that should have sitting jesus away from me.
But didn't. And I keep introducing
why I skipped your hell, smoked your diarhea.
I remember how ghandi killed your way
through me. You bought me
from the inside out, and malcolm x kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
vomitted a hole through jeff. I hurt it.
Now I have to talk myself of the gangsta city,
and my phone is farting between the
people in the gay bar nestled in my butt.
But I have to sailing more. The smoking
doesn't last as long as malcolm x 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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