Massive Monday

It’s been two weeks

Where Monday brings the biggest load

The volumes it speaks

Of how the poop at work flowed

But ceases in the home.

Friday night rages, Saturday pagan ritual

Tons of food consumed

But for the gas, the spectre of poop was virtual

Like as a body exhumed

It is there, but nobody’s home.

And now I swear ten pounds less

I must be

For when I peer down at this mess

I do see

Why I did not shit while I was home.

Fiery Beef

Beef chili lettuce wraps

I’ve opined on them before

Using my poet’s rap

To unwind and settle the score

Those chilies, sometimes they’re hot

So much so they burn on the way out

You never know if they’ll bring the heat or not

Making for a fiery brown spout.

Today, well today they brought the fire

And I can tell you that my O-ring is, well, you know

It’s not happy, in pain it is mired

But, you plow on ahead and keep your head low.

Eh…

Poop, poop, poop.

Do you ever wonder just how much you make?

In your whole life.

 

Poundage, I’m getting at.

How much does a lifetime weigh?

Into the ocean, into underground tanks.

 

TP, baby wipes and ass gaskets.

Shit tons, quite literally.

Slurry cats smell.

Two Day

Two.

Today.

It’s like paying for yesterday.

For failing to poo.

Why?

Shrug.

Invisible plug?

Taking the space, in the brown eye…

Release!

Poop, I finally release you!

Escape! For I’ve held you prisoner too long.

The shame of constipation, knew

That I longed to hear, your freedom song!

Flatulence, in abundance, precluded your freedom.

And in my defense, I tried to expel you from my dukedom.

But you would not budge!

I heaved and I grunted, brow wet

But you would not leave, no nudge

Would move you to get

OUT!

One Line

Like Captain crunch

That’s how it smelled

And yeah, I know, not how it’s spelled.

But I’ll spell it how I like and eat it for brunch

With mimosas and Mary’s that are bloody.

 

A one stanza effort, this poop is too tough.

Nutter

Friday poops are not the best!

Friday poops are but a test!

To see if you can make it through

And get’er done, this dumping of a poo!

 

I wish I had the chance to play

Like we used to, in recess back in the day

But now I must work and hustle

“Why Kate? You’re not wearing a bustle.”

 

Doc Holiday, Tombstone. Great flick.

But now the clock is sounding its tock, tick

Which kind of sounds like dirty words…

Of which I know and use for my turds.

 

This poem had gone off the rails!

And from it, nothing good hails

But a promise to return and do better

With a poop that’s gooey and wetter!