Sunday, February 13, 2011

the movement of diapers

I write you not a poem of torque
and squalor, a poem
to turn the inside of your asshole
into a beautiful riviera,
a rushing woosh of intestine-cleaning,
bowel-moving beauty: what then
do I do? I write for you
a poem of nothing: no squalor,
dolor, tragedy, or even masturbatory
depth of self. I write a poem
of niceness: much shit
and much repetition, almost suitable
for insatiable toilet fodder
(much like cannon fodder)
but not quite, nope: a poem
for your educated liberal intuition
it treats you well, sits you down
on the seat with a thin-paper-disease
and says: "Shit you out
all your fears and depressing thoughts,
all your disobedient parents, children that pout,
your balding dog, old folks (especially the old folks
who've made the movement of diapers,
more, worse shit and less knowledge
of the shit than newborn children)
and flush and wipe and flush and wipe and flush;
you will then have made
the movement of the poem, O
knights and knightesses of the faithhood,
but come back, you! Your constipation's
dilation must be alleviated (even soothed);
dictated, not beautified -that's not
what toilets are most useful for.

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