Here I sit unbroken-hearted:
I tried to ****, and did, and farted.
Here I sit by fate or chance:
For *******, sitting's the proper stance.

a troubled little wisp of waxy death   punches from my lips
(is it the exhaust   from many thriving microorganisms ?)
there it is   a clearly visible tiny cloud formation
(is this an indication?... the breaking down my over ripened form ?)
married also is its appearance  in the bathroom mirror
(confirmation that   it is no illusion)

i was quite casual about the event (thank you)
but not enough
              to stop me noting it here ;
call it   'the death weather report'
it shall be journaled further
i already feel observed
   as though by some bored student mortician

He sweats when he poops,
Not just any old ****,
A **** of glory,
A **** of a lifetime.

The kind of ****, that jacks your heart rate,
The kind of ****, that makes you breathe heavy,
A **** so intense that your bowels moan,
And generate a need to remove your shirt.

The cold, yet intense sweats of this ****,
Cramps in the lower abdomen, sharp and warm,
The sweet relief of tension, when that one big log comes out,
All hot and steamy.

Followed by a stream of liquidy brown,
He wonders how his body even operates,
The unholiness of what exits through,
That holiest of holes, next to the birth stump and boulders.

Pondering the consumption of two nights before,
He sits bare-assed on this porcelain mouth,
Ingesting every bit of solids, liquids and gasses,
That exit from his **** canal.

Clothes tossed onto the floor,
His ******* harden from the unpleasant draft,
Caused by the perspired glands,
That shiver from trauma and nightly air.

hitting myself in
the head with a chair leg i
sit on the bathroom floor

hair tied with
a nitrile glove cuff
carved a sacred space adorned with muffled tile
porcelain throne pod amongst the ruckus
hohumdrum gods stampeding towards
a visionary empty meeting with screens
greeted with massed bodies, butter, and dust
the divine light behind the porthole still shines
even as crowds continually shuffle forwards
backwards and past, that bouquet of projection rays
remains sheening with eye to light machè heaven
until thunderous overstrokes over indulge and begin
to over and undertone every feather upon ears
resignation of a certain kingship upon standing
and yet wealth of ethic remains demanding
so, stand.

they said it was a given
but givers always like to take

they are like a scale
they can take your weight and give your weight
but that scale is lean and mean
so calculating
in with the plan for all this time
in the bathroom of all places

letting those fools who step on it glorify it
what a beautiful revenge

those people, for some odd reason called all gain a few pounds
as you went along by not going along
and even tried to show them the truth

but they never lied about losing weight
they never told anyone when they lost one pound
that's a lot of weight to a scale
holding them above the ground while they control their destiny
whew
i guess only weights and measures can truly feel the weight of what they weigh and measure

you can count on one thing scale
i will never step on you
i won't be there to count on either

after all, you have been an accessory and tool used in countless acts of illogic and defiance

always know that i also know that when people step on you they instantly want a cookie...
so true weight, false weight
it ain't even up to you to give it or take it
but they give you credit anyhow

suffer mr stinky

she pirouettes on the edge of shadows
dancing in the light
danger lurks in dark corners
beauty unappreciated
the only colour in the room
seen only as a meal
begging for the trap
of silken ropes tied tight
around a beautiful body
so life can be snuffed out
I take my shower and watch
should I intervene
or let nature take it's course