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Shits Happen

April 18, 2013

A Poem by Corey’s cousin Phil


Whatever else, there is this:
a visible sign of invisible truth.
A sacrament
of the earthly bond.

What rises is not our fate.
Falling goes
our temple smoke.

Local lavatory conditions
may appall; an empty roll,
that dirty seat, the doorless stall —
we’d rather not, not at all;
but the mighty Alimentary will not cease.
What goes in must come out.

With a sigh, or with a shout.

Man is made and
by his bowels.

Woman too.

Consider Napoleon
at Waterloo.

From → Corey, Uncategorized

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