Wiping up the bullshit.

Even growth is controlled. All of life has turned artificial. Convenience has taken over. It seems that with the direction we are going it won’t be long before I’ll be able to hire a third world worker to wipe my ass.

Her name is Mochikwa and never before have I felt more comfortable with someone wiping my ass. Prior to her I had suffered with a fat brown man, who was far too abrasive and rough with his strokes. In fact his strokes seemed to have no technique to them whatsoever. It was more than apparent that he had not had the proper training to wipe my ass. That’s when I had him deported. If you aren’t competent to wipe my ass then you aren’t competent enough to live in this great nation. Mochika has soft tender hands. In fact, I enjoy the feeling of her hands so much that frequently I will ask her to wipe regardless of whether or not I’ve enjoyed a BM. I got the recommendation for this servant from my father. It seems Mochikwa’s mother worked for him. He said that her mother was even more beautiful, though I find that hard to believe, and even more tender hands? I doubt it.


I find myself stuck between the walls
Of the bathroom stall
Stuck to the porcelain seat
Pushing down on my head
Trying to excrete art
a life sized play dough machine
I wonder how long I’ll have my sleeves rolled up
Elbow deep in raw sewage
Before I realize
It’s all shit.

The Squirts

I need to be better
They’ll all leave,
Break off a corner and get just a taste
Well I’m all broken corners
Or I was until you all came around
Now I’m dispersed
Residing in the intestinal tracks
Of all of the vultures
And the man eating praying mantis
Here I burn in their stomach acid
Somehow more pure than holy water
The squirts blasting from your ass

Prostitution: A different means to fame

There is a poor boy behind the counter
I tell him what I want
How I want it
And by the next day
It’s carved into the inside of the eyelids
Tatted in bright red ink,
To make sure he never forgets my name

He’ll be the only one to remember
He’ll be the only one to know I’m famous

He makes it for me,
I’ll eat enough to make this ass
In torn daisy dukes
To not look good,
after a night of perspiration
When you’re alone
And it’s 7 in the morning,

The Last Pump at the Gas Station

Pump me up full of adderall
Heroine, cocaine, tea, cigarettes
Ungodly amounts of caffeine
Until it’s all that I can do

Sit and push out shit
Shaking anxious wrecks
Blowing down walls

While I sit on this shitter
Still ready to die
Still typing away
Like if I stop
The trigger will
Pull me
And I’ll snap


Maybe Buddha is slouching over
A radioactive T.V. dinner.

Maybe you attain enlightenment
Through the meditative
Chewing of Styrofoam
That’s sustained you
For 8 years.

Maybe Jesus died
In the middle of an
Intravenous orgasm
Maybe the Dharma was carved
Into the bathroom stall
Of a whore house
Somewhere in limbo.