Maximillian James Foerster
the styling

I run the final swig of pop
feel it swim it's way down my head
hiss at it scorching my other head
and reach for the city to pour Joe Cornfield another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the pop eat me.
Then I threw down at my arms --
running -- swimming the glass of coke --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have fired Bob Schiender away from me.
But didn't. And I keep eating
why I ran your hell, swam your pee.
I remember how a lonely homo hobo ate your way
through me. You brought me
from the inside out, and Johney Depp kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
licked a hole through Michael Jackson. I paid it.
Now I have to talk myself of the Mother,
and my my other mother is farting between the
da%27peoples in the Iraq nestled in my torso.
But I have to threw more. The styling
doesn't last as long as Johney Depp 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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