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Poetry
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| In Which I Disown My Arse | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||
| 15 January 2007 | ||||||||||
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My own arse is making a fool of me, springing surprises like a magician’s hat. Never the perfect chocolate submarine of my youth. Slipping silent, odourless, into the gullet of no return. What have I done to you, arse, to be mistreated thus? I gush the taps, in vain attempt, to drown your unholy cacophony. An arse is not supposed to sneeze! Clean your own revolting mess! And don’t come crying to me with shredded, reddened sphincter! The doing was mine, yet not mine, I am not my arse’s keeper. Had I insulted you with Imodium, or curry, or stout, or sickly prunes, I would expect as much. Yet gentle chicken and rice? I am done with you! You are no arse of mine! Oli 15/01/07
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