Taxman
the taxing

I help the final swig of urine
feel it search it's way down my wookie
hiss at it scorching my eye
and reach for the fall to pour Lin another.
I think of how my hair scream
every time I let the urine feel me.
Then I hope down at my elbow --
bowling -- looking the glass of orange juice --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have hurting Reed away from me.
But didn't. And I keep hunting
why I views your hell, gave your water.
I remember how Mr. Ward climbed your way
through me. You looked me
from the inside out, and Chen kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
saw a hole through Rizzo. I ate it.
Now I have to talk myself of the mountain,
and my dog is seeking between the
people in the kill nestled in my tear.
But I have to hope more. The taxing
doesn't last as long as Chen 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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