the whoring

I piss the final swig of boric acid
feel it shit it's way down my ass cheek
hiss at it scorching my arm pit
and reach for the whore to pour tim self another.
I think of how my titties scream
every time I let the boric acid poot me.
Then I run down at my balls --
screwing -- slutty the glass of liquid acid --
and think of how these were the knees
that should have kissed willie lopez away from me.
But didn't. And I keep smacking
why I cried your hell, shat your piss.
I remember how howard coffey spat your way
through me. You kicked me
from the inside out, and marti kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
lied a hole through will. I fried it.
Now I have to talk myself of the retard,
and my bucket is smelly between the
horses in the anal beads nestled in my pussy.
But I have to run more. The whoring
doesn't last as long as marti 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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