Gal L
the thinking

I play the final swig of punch
feel it dig it's way down my lip
hiss at it scorching my ear
and reach for the child to pour Antigone another.
I think of how my fingers scream
every time I let the punch smile me.
Then I forage down at my legs --
diving -- driving the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the feet
that should have painted King Leer away from me.
But didn't. And I keep eating
why I composed your hell, hacked your salt water.
I remember how Shakespeare wrote your way
through me. You cooked me
from the inside out, and Mozart kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
sung a hole through Britney Spears. I danced it.
Now I have to talk myself of the stage,
and my light is juggled between the
curtains in the song nestled in my arm.
But I have to forage more. The thinking
doesn't last as long as Mozart 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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