The Dirty Muse


Life is experiences and

Road trips

And I’m so hip

I read poetry on the


I sit at a ripe age

Like the poor man

With prosthetic


Yearning for some


All of my best ideas

Come between


And release

They call me

The potty prophet

Trigger pulled. It was poop.

Pump me 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 here
ass puckered to the seat
Still ready to die
Still typing away
Like if I stop
The trigger will
Pull me
And I’ll snap

How to Pick up Women

after a few pots of coffee
I shit like machine gun rounds,
My ass sags like rumple stilts skin
Putrid burning mass graves
Producing poo more impressive
Than poetry
When I meet a woman with a scandalously
Intentioned smile
I become
The fluffy bunny
Doing back flips
For a carrot
And a stroke

I read her a line or two
Prove my artistry
Probe my brain
Probing with chocolate finger
Frantic fanny
“that’s not even that impressive
You should see my shits
Gander the goods.
People come from all around
Towns from the far side
of the world
to seize this masterpiece ”
And when they do
The long tapering snake making its way
From the toilet bowl
Down the hall
And out the front door
That’s what gets me laid.

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


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.