By Gatta Gopi
Looking at what I’m cooking down
in the porcelain chalice,
of course it’s an Alice
in Wonderland situation,
eat me, drink me, think pee.
When the neck gets sore,
the man forgets more, as time
flies away like a stream of consciousness,
where the raunchiness assembles the dream stream.
Like the Cheshire Cat, you better
treasure that golden elixir,
“I can’t hold it in my dick, sir!”,
watch the yellow ink tincture,
just stand and watch,
hand on crotch,
as the pitter and patter
gets bigger and badder
like the Mad Hatter,
inviting literal chatter
from one bubble to the next,
to the next,
to the next,
pop-
pop-
pop,
I
can’t
stop-
stop-
stop
When I yearn for urine, it’s urgent,
the current’s a serpent,
a fervent merchant of recurrent current.
Urinal, you’re in luck, you’re
a journal for the eternal burn of
the light beer, it types here,
tappin’ down the lyrical letters of hours before.
I cower before the powerful
aroma of asparagus and arrogance,
gosh that’s nasty,
a deluded inheritance,
my eyes are glassy,
like William Henry Harrison,
it blasts past me,
it gets crafty.
I feel the rumblings, my tummy feels funny,
oh no, I think number one is number two,
it’s not fun until I poo,
till I say “yoo-hoo” to the loo.
But lo, it’s a urinal above which I flooded,
a sober second thought that now has me gutted.
What’d I do wrong this morning?
Rebutted the forming warnings,
now the dam damn has jammed a man in its clammy hands,
BAM BAM!
I hop to the stall, I drop-drop-drop
all as I fall over in my crouch,
a torpor in my slouch.
Hot take: hot snake + fossil = colossal.
Duly noted, my belly is bloated,
Encoded, eroded, it’s damn near imploded.
From Tanzania to Korea, my diarrhea’s saying “see ya”,
The farts and the toots produce an onomatopoeia,
As the stream is squalid,
Straddling the line between liquid and solid--
Oh yeah, this feels good.
Like the last scene of Dumb and Dumber,
When my blast needs an extra plumber,
Inundating, seeking refuge in the porcelain chalice,
From the deluge of my torso of malice,
It’s swimming, gasping for breath, clasping its death
Like Macduff and Macbeth, like Banquo
I watch the tank flow,
F L U S H
‘Cause I’m the VP of TP, the MVP of pee-pee.
I’m proud to announce the birth of my son,
Plop Plop,
Weighing seven pounds and 12 ounces,
And heaven knows what even counts
As healthy at this point.
‘Cause this is the best room,
The Republic of Restroom,
To truly test you
If nature’s calling.
When your belly’s bawling,
Urine luck.
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