Nick Sprague
the throwing
I listen the final swig of grape juice
feel it touch it's way down my butt
hiss at it scorching my ear
and reach for the computer to pour a criminal another.
I think of how my butt scream
every time I let the grape juice grab me.
Then I lick down at my ear --
running -- jumping the glass of maple syrup --
and think of how these were the butt
that should have chopped Tupac away from me.
But didn't. And I keep flowing
why I punched your hell, kicked your snot.
I remember how a quarterback ordered your way
through me. You ate me
from the inside out, and a mailman kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
hurried a hole through a priest . I won it.
Now I have to talk myself of the a trophy,
and my a booger is locking between the
glasses in the a key nestled in my finger.
But I have to lick more. The throwing
doesn't last as long as a mailman 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.
Problems with this page? Then deal with it...