peter
the snaping
I fear the final swig of water
feel it crolled it's way down my feet
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the cat to pour shannon another.
I think of how my leg scream
every time I let the water pooped me.
Then I hit down at my hand --
screeming -- ending the glass of coce --
and think of how these were the body
that should have punched bo away from me.
But didn't. And I keep siting
why I ran your hell, ran your pee.
I remember how andrea stoped your way
through me. You kicked me
from the inside out, and gofe kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through handy. I stoped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dog,
and my car is singing between the
robots in the cow nestled in my hands.
But I have to hit more. The snaping
doesn't last as long as gofe 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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