Archive
02/12/10
Constipation
Her lingering life, suspended mercilessly, agonizingly, With seemingly infinite resignation to fate's mordant sense of humor, Is a tenacious case of constipation.
For the life of her, she just won't, can't go, No matter how forcefully, strenuously, indefatigably she tries, And believe me, she decidedly wants, desires, yearns to call it quits,
Take that one good, uncompromisingly purgative dump, Which has been damming up all the vegetative years of her decline, Let it fly, overflow existence's crapper, with her foul, foul waste.
Indeed, she plugs along, day to day to day to day, As if there were no tomorrow or, if so, One that would never allow her to slide, smoothly, down the tubes.
And so it is that growing older, by the second, the decade, She never grows so old that she can reckon death's trajectory, Measure the coordinates that might lead to her final resting cesspool.
She just endures and endures and endures, As mortality's obstruction process keeps compacting her static mass Of feces and gas — a living, breathing, deathless piece of shit.
02/12/10
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