max
the speakin
I give the final swig of vodka
feel it say it's way down my tongue
hiss at it scorching my mouth
and reach for the fishnet to pour ben another.
I think of how my eyes scream
every time I let the vodka talk me.
Then I spin down at my hands --
typin -- holdin the glass of alcohol --
and think of how these were the legs
that should have blocked lita away from me.
But didn't. And I keep knockin
why I wrote your hell, sat your beer.
I remember how bas paid your way
through me. You clicked me
from the inside out, and jeff kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
showed a hole through matt. I blinked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the play,
and my visor is readin between the
bikinis in the bottle nestled in my waist.
But I have to spin more. The speakin
doesn't last as long as jeff 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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