eli
the talking

I slice the final swig of pee
feel it poop it's way down my leg
hiss at it scorching my knee
and reach for the yoni to pour ryann another.
I think of how my eyes scream
every time I let the pee kiss me.
Then I love down at my peepe megee --
licking -- snorting the glass of saliva --
and think of how these were the feet
that should have sucking debbie away from me.
But didn't. And I keep praying
why I coughed your hell, ate your liquid nitro.
I remember how mom slept your way
through me. You killed me
from the inside out, and Dr. Downing kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
taught a hole through ford. I snored it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pretzel,
and my drink is thinking between the
snowballs in the light nestled in my lips.
But I have to love more. The talking
doesn't last as long as Dr. Downing 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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