Ross
the vomiting
I grimace the final swig of cranberry juice
feel it gyrate it's way down my pelvis
hiss at it scorching my brain
and reach for the union to pour Brett another.
I think of how my eyes scream
every time I let the cranberry juice yodel me.
Then I urinate down at my genitals --
singing -- tickling the glass of blood --
and think of how these were the pectorals
that should have mooned Dalene away from me.
But didn't. And I keep lighting
why I belched your hell, sneezed your urine.
I remember how Nathan died your way
through me. You defecated me
from the inside out, and Ralph kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
giggled a hole through Tom. I cooked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the tire,
and my mountain is dressing between the
aliens in the boar nestled in my buttocks.
But I have to urinate more. The vomiting
doesn't last as long as Ralph 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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