It's like giving birth: the contractions and expansions, but usually not so
long ( I heard of a man once, but that's another story)
What comes out though
might be alike, might not
(not might) but it is safe to say it cannot be cuddled. The anus
breathes
as it disposes, like a patient on a machine, as if waste were new life. The
bombs fall, darkly, like an argument in Glasgow, onto
some hapless microbes. Those innocent bobblers
in the undifferentiated water. Whom the smudge smothers. The bum rises
slowly from the seat,
like a B52, and wipes itself, with paper, with the necessary hand, on a
blank tissue of words,
as if guilt could be cleaned
by the air.
Best (!)
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
A Chide's Alphabet
Painting Without Numbers
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