jack doodle
the vexing
I grab the final swig of absinth
feel it edify it's way down my brain
hiss at it scorching my liver
and reach for the tundra to pour marilyn monroe another.
I think of how my kidnies scream
every time I let the absinth sell me.
Then I kill down at my lungs --
pausing -- masticating the glass of urine --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have crunched george bush away from me.
But didn't. And I keep realizing
why I pulled your hell, made your whisky.
I remember how john f. kenedy burped your way
through me. You slathered me
from the inside out, and frank sanatra kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
piled a hole through jimmy kimmle. I ran it.
Now I have to talk myself of the evangilist,
and my goat is damning between the
plumbers in the hat nestled in my medulaoblongada.
But I have to kill more. The vexing
doesn't last as long as frank sanatra 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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