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Here is a poem I wrote yesterday after getting home from work. If you work in customer service for a while you start to get a pretty good grasp of the human condition. It smells funny. And I am starting to see the stench of my own doings in the fumes of those around me. I am part of the Promentalshitbackwashpsychosisenemasquad. You know, the doodoo chasers. I dedicate this poem to George Clinton.

An Overexposed Self-Portrait
Through the Lens
Of Another’s Life

I toil at a drug store
For money.
A woman bought ex-lax
Today,
Went into the bathroom,
And
Sprayed a shit slaughter
All over wall and stall.
Smell swept down
The coat pegged hall
To the table,
Where I devoured delicacies
Prepared by Chef Mike
rowave.
She was a poopetrator of Pollocklike proportions.

The woman:
She can’t read,
Or count,
Or communicate
Like the rest of us can;
Like “US NORMAL FOLK.”

“You help me? I need medicine, and I can’t read good.”
“Sure, what are you looking for?”
“Vitamin E
“Oh”

She’s on the cigarettes and beer diet / Basic Lights and Milwaukee’s Best.
Basically the best
For those looking to alleviate ailments of an aging anatomy.

She loathes most folks
Because
They give her shit.
See,
In a sense
She’s a bit
Like me.

 

 

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The Shitiest Poem I Could Come Up With

I usually don’t have a complete lack of maturity, but today is not usual. Today I’m acting a fool… for the stool.

My Shitty Poem

Ode to the commode

That carries my poo

And keeps me from disease,

Parasites and the flu.

Ode to this seat

Where I do so much reading.

The brown bombs of bowel movements

Are the effects of my eating.

The commode, it gleams

With stinky sediment steam,

Yet I can’t do without it

It would very much seem.

I wish I could shit

In the yard like a dog;

No worry of overflow,

No worry of clog.

But the commode is now broken

And will not flush my pee,

So now this ode

Will be an elegy.