the swinging
I swim the final swig of milk
feel it talk it's way down my leg
hiss at it scorching my lip
and reach for the bottle to pour fireman another.
I think of how my ears scream
every time I let the milk lick me.
Then I arrange down at my toenails --
laughing -- choking the glass of snapple --
and think of how these were the digits
that should have plumeted Elvis Presley away from me.
But didn't. And I keep running
why I hollerandized your hell, carrened your jack daniels.
I remember how James Dean ran your way
through me. You squinted me
from the inside out, and Madonna kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ate a hole through actor. I farted it.
Now I have to talk myself of the lizard,
and my window is prancing between the
stickers in the lettuce nestled in my intestine.
But I have to arrange more. The swinging
doesn't last as long as Madonna 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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