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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.
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.