robin
the swimming

I cry the final swig of black tea
feel it drink it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for the cloak to pour fiddler another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the black tea swing me.
Then I drive down at my breasts --
swallowing -- running the glass of ocean water --
and think of how these were the limbs
that should have walked musician away from me.
But didn't. And I keep playing
why I drove your hell, dove your petroleum.
I remember how band leader arched your way
through me. You writhed me
from the inside out, and poet kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through teacher. I stroked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pool,
and my book is stealing between the
hands in the pen nestled in my belly.
But I have to drive more. The swimming
doesn't last as long as poet 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.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...