Oubliette for the Paperless Poet
He's looking for onions in the chamber pot;
he's thinking of gales from under ‘im—
he's never going to close his mouth
but chew on his matter, smut on his chin.
(Sometimes he feels a ripper coming;
sometimes he whiffs at his own odors;
sometimes he poses en toilette
while sniffing at fingers for readers.)
You'd can’t believe his saint self-image;
you can’t believe in his ebullience—
you wish his mother’d done her job,
accessing Roe v. Wade. (Such brilliance.)
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