Phil
the turning

I fall the final swig of used car oil
feel it sniff it's way down my liver
hiss at it scorching my eye brow
and reach for the brownie to pour Rasputin another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the used car oil cuddle me.
Then I laugh down at my testis --
clenching -- releasing the glass of raw egg --
and think of how these were the eye lids
that should have fondoling You away from me.
But didn't. And I keep nagging
why I ran your hell, fell your red wine.
I remember how Andre the Giant lit your way
through me. You pilled me
from the inside out, and Phil kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
drank a hole through Jubas. I flew it.
Now I have to talk myself of the box,
and my dildo is thrusting between the
rabbits in the house nestled in my nose.
But I have to laugh more. The turning
doesn't last as long as Phil 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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