#constipation
I run to my ceramic throne,
I feel it coming I groan.
I take my seat,
Try to ****
To no avail,
I feel terrible.
I push more and more,
My face red, my bum sore.
One last push,one last try,
A deep breath, a loud cry,
"Who let the dogs out, woof woof,
Out you come, you goof,
Something dropped,
It worked,
Heard a large plop.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
\ i have a finger
it has a trigger
i have a bullet
it has a chamber
a perfect fusion
to combat illusion
and i'm rolling
back down the road
to the city we all
know of
Linger City
Linger City
Linger City
Where i keep
my finger
with a rigor
mortis snicker
***** you city
slicker
my funny bone
********
is a state of
perfection
all within
the limits of
Linger City
Linger City
Linger City
yeah /
:: 09-12-2018 ::
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
When his mother was dying we each said goodbye
I was moved to tears.
The funeral came and though I tried to remain stoic, English, I cried.
Then he died, pulled under by umbilical cords, tied by my bloodied hands.
When the service came I cried then too.
My parents told me not to cry, as though it was an admission of guilt.
Still I wept through the service, as though their sternly worded advice meant nothing.
I sat and felt several tides of sorrow wash over me.
I tried to clench my bowels when it came. Through the first I stayed strong, forcing the emotion down.
The second wave made my eyes water; and whilst a stray tear dribbled off my chin I remained strong, forcing the emotion back down my swollen throat to maintain composure.
The third wave came, and though I kicked and struggled to keep my head above the guilty waves I sank below
My weeping, scabbed face betrayed the guilt of a murderer and finally I let go
Allowing the full horror of what had transpired to engulf me.
I drowned, my face covered by my ***** jacket.
The priest offered for us to share a final moment with the victim before he was burnt to ashes
And I, like the guilty party sat stock still, paralysed by the truth; that I, at that young age, had killed
And whilst I swore that I would never **** again
I collapsed adrift on a bitter sea of tears,
Howling at the injustice that I had wrought.
Later, when composure had been regained I felt a stirring in those clenched bowels.
I sat down on the porcelain throne and proceeded to **** out a large and meaty ****
I strained, my eyes watered, and my **** tipped to the edge of prolapse.
Comforted, I wiped and then felt nothing.
With humility I knew, that I was not noble Simon Daedalus but lowly Leopold Bloom.
The same avenues corporeal brinkmanship that led me to that sad place
Had led me to safety.
It was at first a sad realisation
But I’m happier now.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
Get that **** out
don't let it stay in
building up, soiling
inside and rotting
like the mold on a loaf of bread
ignored on the shelf
for two weeks
too long.
Get that **** out
for what seems to come out
of your ******* to you
may just be that
lost, buried treasure
another has finally found,
and oh how they might worship it
your magnificent ****
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC