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Excerpt for Back Talk by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Back Talk



Copyright 2019 Patch Jingle

Published by Patch Jingle at Smashwords



Cover art from (center) Treason!, an etching by Richard Newton, 1798;
and (sidebars) the Edo Fart Scroll.


Most of the verse turdlets were originally published in Passings, Amazon, 2017, ASIN: B075Q3LGJK.


This is an original work by the author. Someone should take responsibility for it, after all.



Smashwords Edition License Notes

I want this to be read, enjoyed, and even commented upon. You’re free to forward it to anyone you choose,
even your cat.

Table of Contents

Essence of the Fart

Fart as Expression

Uses of the Fart

Fart as Identity

Fart as Defense

Fart as Territorial Assertion

Fart as Song

Fart as Protest

Fart as Entertainment

Fart in Modern Times

Fart as Bonding Mechanism

Fart as Management Speak

Fart as Art

Starting the Day

Ass-pirations

Grandpa's Awake

Morning Arrival

Morning Blast

Time for Number 2

Break of Dawn

Daybreak Bottom Quake

Passing Time

Coffee Colonic

Repast Blasts

Fresh Biscuit

Perfect Storm

Release the Beast

After-lunch De-bunch

Ass-ton-ished

Pasta All Recall

Passed at Repast

Decim-ate the Plate

Dropping a Few Stone(s)

Beef Relief

Lamb Dinner

Buffet Matter

Trouble South of the Border

Post-prandial Breeze

Clearing the Air

Relationship

Great to Meet You

Mermaid's Breath of Life

Wedding Chicken

Airing Things Out

Did You Hear That?

The Cat that Shat

Morning Surprise

Ass-uming Airs

Olfactory Distress

Parfum La Doom

Forced-air Heating

The Gassy Mingler

Paleo

Dad the Ripper

Tough Day at the Orifice

Bombs Away

Behaving with Decorum

The Emperor's Speech

After the Colon

Status Report

Contrail

Massive Outflow

Office Gift Exchange

Resignation, with Attachment

P(h)arting Gift

Creative (f)Arts

Twerky Toot

Solid Poem

Cruel Stool

Far(t) Trek

Philosophical Ventings

Two Lips Flapping

Tweet from the Seat

Manifesto

Rumors

Dump Your Troubles

Thought While Sitting

Contributions

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Essence of the Fart

Bum burp, bottom blast, heinie hiccup, tail tune, an earthquake on the moon, the opening movement of a shart symphony—all these are euphemisms for that most primal and universal of human expressions, the fart.

Farting is among the oldest and most fundamental methods of human communication. As universal to humanity as eating, the art of the fart, albeit covered over by generations of culture and layers of fabric, is still used for these purposes even today.

Fart as Expression

Any description of how humankind differ from the other beasts invariably touches upon our mastery of vocal utterances for communication. Oral language’s unsung sibling, the fart, is far less acknowledged. The fart, in fact, may be the first wind instrument.

As a prime example of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, the rise of this primal musical skill, control of the fart, is mirrored by every one of us during our youth. Just as we are taught to control release of biological waste, to keep it inside until we are appropriately situated to release it, so too are we schooled to restrain the release of gas.

We also learn that the consequences for incommodious release of vapor are far less extreme than for a liquid or solid. While the untimely expulsion of a dumpling while at the store with your parents resulted in harsh reprimand and a hasty departure homeward, release of an air biscuit often netted no more than a mild reprimand, accompanied by a furtive chortle.

Likewise, pants wetting in kindergarten often was dealt with far more severely than an outgassing. Moreover, except when discharged into a very fine particle filter, a fart cannot be seen. Unlike a wee or a poo, a fart has no material presence to us. It is of the same nature as the very air we breathe. Likewise, unless a fart escalates to a solid, no cleanup is required. It passes like the wind.

From these early experiences, we deduce that farts are in fact harmless. Moreover, we also come to understand that the same muscular machinery we use to control the passing of a deuce can be honed to control the expression of a poot. Through experimentation when alone, with our peers, or with that unattached uncle who is single for a reason, we quickly learn to control the pitch and timbre of our airs de derriere.

We learn to control pitch of the release, the musical note, by the strength of the abdominal squeeze. Timbre, likewise, we tune by the amount we lift a leg. Refinements are introduced by experimenting with the effects of fabric layers and sitting surfaces.

A note delivered through thin or no fabric rings louder than one pressed through the back of a pair of jeans, where the fabric alters the resulting note much like the mute of a trumpet. Similarly, a note injected into a cushiony seat is dulled, whereas one squeezed out against a hard sitting surface rings like a high note blasted by Miles Davis.

Long before we are able to compose a coherent essay for school, we become virtuosi of the butt tuba, the colon clarinet, the trouser trumpet, and the bowel bassoon.

Uses of the Fart

Developed before human speech, farting was used by our primate ancestors for a wide range of social purposes: identification, defense, territorial assertion, protest, and of course, entertainment.

Fart as Identity

Many species have long used the sense of smell to identify their surroundings, which includes identifying fellow creatures. Even today, many animals rely on scent as the primary means of investigating and interpreting the world around them.

One need look no further than the family dog or cat to observe this behavior in action. A judicious sniff of a fellow creature’s bottom obviates the need for names, handshakes, ID cards, or passwords.

While humans and other primates rely greatly on our evolution-honed visual acuity to observe the world, other senses are sometimes needed. Even more so was this true before development of eye glasses, contacts, and LASIK.

Even good eyesight is of limited use on a dark night or in an unlit cave. In cases where it was inconvenient or dangerous to use sounds, smells were used for identification.

Likewise, while the sounds of someone known to you could be mimicked by a clever trickster or foe, a smell was much harder to imitate. This held true even for mammoth farts from the same feast. Based on their unique makeup of intestinal organisms, each clan member’s colon cough was as good as a fingerprint.

Just as an elephant in a dark room feels unique to each pair of hands, so too the same mammoth gave a different essence from each feaster’s keister.

Fart as Defense

Smell-based identification became especially critical at times when use of sounds was impractical or even dangerous. As the population of human groups grew, conflict between clans became more frequent. An attack in the daylight likely included the auditory tumult expected of an open battle, clangoring with the yells and cries of the combatants and the clash of their weapons. Yet an attack at night often depended on subterfuge or stealth, the latter especially requiring silence on the part of the aggressors.

In these pre-historic times, “silent but deadly” meant more than an olfactory assault that was unaccompanied by an introductory sennet. An invading band trained to poot without tooting could use bowel odors to silently communicate during an attack, without arousing the attention of their sleeping targets. Some care, of course, had to be taken to ensure that the odors were not so caustic that they acted like smelling salts!

Fart as Territorial Assertion

Soon after our ancestors learned how to manage fire, they discovered that one of its many benefits is its efficacy as a pest deterrent. Not only did a fire provide warmth, light, and a way to make mammoth flesh more palatable, the smoke from a fire also kept away insects.

Even earlier than the development of fire management, a well-placed effusion of gas de flatus was observed to drive away unwanted guests or nagging clan members.

Likewise, a proactive fanny flare or puff de duff deposited in the right place could help assure one’s claim to a favored resting spot. Eons before the Dutch oven, the pelt poot, hide heater, and fur burner were popular methods of maintaining occupation underneath a warm covering.

Fart as Song

As discussed above, current research suggests that the earliest intentional use of farting for communication may have been as musical expression. Just as song developed by intentionally shaping vocal utterances to elicit a pleasure response, so the art of the fart emerged from the intentional control of pitch and timbre.

It can be no coincidence that, just as professional singers power their deliveries using the abdomen, so too does the caboose chanteuse propel their butt utterances from deep within the bowels.

On chilly nights, before telling stories, streaming internet content, or partaking of any other sort of cultural diversion not invented yet, our ancestors are thought to have whiled away the hours improvising song. Undoubtedly, canticles of the cheek held an estimable place among these lost effusions of expression.

An emerging school of speculation suggests that the some of the smoke layers found in these caves may in fact be from flatulence instead of fires. Yet this hypothesis is still fomenting within the bowels of academia, and at the time of this writing is not ready to be externalized.

Sadly, while superb examples of the early visual arts are preserved (for example, the fabulous paleolithic paintings in the caves of Lascaux in France), no such trove has to date been unearthed for early songs, including tunes of the tush. Until the archeological sciences advance enough to reconstruct these songs from amidst the layers of soot and brown on cavern walls, these cheek canticles are likely to remain sequestered in the bowels of time.

Fart as Protest

While female Neanderthals were developing tsk-tsks and knowing glances to communicate, males instead continued to develop the art of the fart.

The female Neanderthal, like her modern counterpart, spent enormous amounts of time and energy vocalizing and persuading. The male Neanderthal, on the contrary, could easily render his opinion on any topic simply by squeezing his abdomen. Not only was the fart found to be more efficient than talking, it had the added benefit of driving away the noxious interlocuter. Merely by dispensing a bit of bowel essence, the male could restore the sonic and psychological peace of his surroundings.

Fart as Entertainment

Laughter is known to be a superb remedy for stress. In fact, this uniquely human behavior is theorized to have evolved from a more primal stress response. When we laugh, we are exercising that stress response. Neither flight nor fight, laughter is more of a “yeah, right” response.

Farting is another form of stress relief. While other species freely flatulate (as anyone who spends time with a mammal of another species soon observes), humans are the only species known to combine flatulation and laughter. Farts are funny.

Both comedy and tragedy can trace their roots to the fart. Just as one person’s (minor) tragedy is another’s comedy, so the fart. Walking into another person’s gut bluster can elicit tears, while simultaneously the breeches blaster who dealt it experiences mirth.

Fart in Modern Times

An integral part of human advancement is the ever-increasing complexity of our interactions. Over time, modes of interaction deemed acceptable are codified into convention, and taught to our offspring as culture.

Just as our ancestors began to wear garments not only for warmth but also to ameliorate the awkwardness of coexisting, so too was the art of the fart covered over and relegated to a behavior to be indulged in either alone or with trusted companions.

From an early age, we are taught to restrict our vaporous alimentary eructations as another form of waste expulsion, to be engaged in only in the privacy of the loo or the forest.

Yet a primal impulse that is restricted merely finds another form of outlet. Just as our innate urges for frenetic bonding find vent in the modern world through erotically-toned media, so too the urge to fart.

Fart as Bonding Mechanism

It is common for humans to engage in stress-response behaviors when bonding. Nervous laughter is quite common in groups where the participants are new to one another, and serves as an icebreaker.

Upon subsequent meetings, as group members grow more accustomed to one another, laughter may still occur, although it occurs less as a stress response and more as a reaffirmation of familiarity. We laugh when we are socially uncomfortable and also when we are socially comfortable.

In prehistoric times, the fart may have been deployed along with laughter in new groups to facilitate the socialization process, an ass-breaker as it were. In modern times, however, social farting occurs primarily in groups that are already socialized, and primarily in predominantly male groups.

While it is not unheard of for a bevy of bridesmaids to cut loose from the caboose, communal colon clearing is far more common among a bunch of dudes sucking suds and enjoying the game together.

Fart as Management Speak

Fart in its modern form often manifests as oratory. Practiced from its earliest days by shamans, clan leaders, and those aspiring to assume either role, giving a speech was a way to simultaneously engage and irritate others, often toward a specific end.

The transition from delivery of flatus from the lower cheeks to the upper ones may be attributed, at least in Western culture, to Socrates. While history has sided with this corrupter of youth, portraying him as a victim both of politics and of a shrewish wife, it is equally likely that he drew intense ire not only for his ideas, but for the tiresomeness of their expression. Even the cleverest and most thought-provoking of companions has overstayed their welcome after air-brushing the sofa one time too many.

An example of this survives in Plato’s Symposium. The dialog recounts the conversation at a drinking party attended by Socrates and some of his devotees, including his greatest publicist, Plato himself. Another of the disciples who attends the drinking party is Aristophanes, known for his great wit and as the author of many classic comedies, including The Frogs, which features a chorus of… frogs. During the discussion, Aristophanes suffers a fit of hiccups and is unable to speak.

Scholars vary in their interpretations of this detail, speculating as to the author’s intent in including it. While many assert that the incident is made up to help tell the story, it is equally likely that Socrates had ripped a rich bit of rear rhetoric, and the playwright simply couldn’t breathe.

Plato’s solids, while traditionally attributed to the influence of Pythagoras, may in fact be an attempt to pass on the rarified essence of the Socratic fart.

In modern times, the fart’s role in rhetorical persuasion has been wholly subsumed by management speak. The bloviating of the modern-day manager is simply the sustained release of an alimentary eructation, in verbal form. The rump has been replaced by the stump.

Why, it may be objected, does a manager’s speech take so much longer to render than a fart? This has to do with how the fart is experienced by the sufferer. Whereas we experience another’s fart as soon as the molecules expelled from the farter’s colon strike the sense receptors in our olfactory canal, the manager’s speech must enter through a subtler, less chemically sensitive sense, hearing.

Instead of entering through the nose, the managerial speech enters though the ear. The subtler mechanism of cilia vibration in the ear canal produces the cerebral sense of the offending scents. We internalize a cognitive model of the fart based on the sounds produced by the manager’s voice.

Now fart-infused by the manager, the listener responds as though subjected to an actual fart. These responses may range from laughter to scowls to retching and in some cases, actual vomiting, the same as the reactions one has to actual farts. Continuing to confine the listener in earshot of the manager only intensifies the effect, which is another reason for the onerous length of modern speeches.

The most extreme example of a manager’s fart-as-speech is the filibuster, an oratory practice that is openly admitted to be designed specifically for the purpose of wearing down the listener, until they either concede out of desperation or expire from old age.

Fart as Art

The fart also lives on, in transmogrified form, as art. Hearkening back to the earliest uses of farting as music, flatulence in contemporary society often appears under the guise of art. Practicing what may be viewed as a modern form of fart as protest, the modern fartisan delivers their bowel bombs not with tush, but with chisel, pen, or brush.

Prime examples of contemporary art farts include Harlequin romances, Hollywood sitcoms, and of course, nearly any abstract sculpture or painting.

Jackson Pollock, true to the spirit of the French, took this approach to the extreme by mounting his shart-stained undergarments in frames, adding a bit of extra color, and selling them for open display.

The vast majority of contemporary poetry may fairly be characterized as poots of the pen. Free verse, that odious pretense of the poetic that typically lacks the essential characteristics of a poem, meter and rhyme, is particularly redolent of the fart.

With little shame and no further attempt at an introduction, the following chapters present rhymes that are unabashedly about, and effused from, the behind.

Here be poems of the fart, and a few even of the shart. Some are wet and some are dry, and I hope at least a few leave a tear in your eye—of laughter. I leave you now to enjoy their essence while I seek fresher air in another room.

Starting the Day

Ass-pirations

I greet another day with hope
That good things it shall bring;
Stuffed with ass-pirations,
Through my trumpet-hole I sing.

Grandpa's Awake

The heavens parting?
A diesel engine starting?
That’s grandpa farting!

Morning Arrival

Time to greet the morning and announce that I am here:
I herald my arrival with a trumpet from the rear.

Morning Blast

A morning trumpet
Blasts its call from down below.
Relieved, I now arise.

Time for Number 2

Arisen from my slumber,
My brain is still askew,
Intestines full of lumber,
They’ve had all night to stew.

Morning cup of wakeup,
My favorite heady brew,
My log jam that’ll shake up—
Now time for number 2!

Break of Dawn

A new day has dawned.
First fart of the day has spawned.
Wind on golden pond.

Daybreak Bottom Quake

When I arise, with mind opaque,
In need of jolt myself to wake,
My bottom cheeks I squeeze to break
A blast that makes the whole house quake.

Passing Time

(Written in the form of a tanka ranka.)



Old man breaking wind,
Speaking volumes from his end.
His trousers rend
As he vents forth his special blend,
The tables to upend.

Coffee Colonic

When my bowels are crimped in confusion of colic
I clear out the pipes with a coffee colonic.

The doo that’s congealed in a thick pasty stew
Loosens free in a geyser of frothy black brew.

After a cup o’ the joe in the pooper,
I’m ready to start out the day like a trooper.

Repast Blasts

Fresh Biscuit

Bottom biscuit, nice and fresh, golden brown and wavy.
It’s not time to flush just yet—now here comes the gravy!

Perfect Storm

I gorged on seafood feast, a piscene swarm,
And overstressed my buttons past the norm.
My stomach’s taken on a brand new form.
And down below? There brews a perfect storm!

Release the Beast

Unholy beast
From my colon released,
In a vapor you blanket the room.

From my swampy South-East
You slipped out as though greased;
Here you linger, increasing our gloom.

Born from a feast
That my beltsize increased,
You’re the worst of the anti-parfumes.

If I steady my gaze
In the sting of your haze,
And pretend that I cannot detect you,

Will I doubt enough raise
As to who’s ass malaise
Made their colon upend to eject you?

An age-old tradition, but one could do worse:
I’ll blame you on whomever mentions you first.

After-lunch De-bunch

After lunch, I get the urge
My munch-compacted bowels to purge.

No fun to hold it in a while,
And hunching over’s not my style.

What benefit is there to wait?
From bowl-seat now I’ll levitate.

It leaves me feeling fresh and thinner
And makes room for a bigger dinner.

Ass-ton-ished

I guess there is simply no beating it.
This ritual, I’ll be repeating it.
I gorged at the feast
On too much of the beast—
Now my ass-ton is sh*tting a sheet of it.

Pasta All Recall

Any chef would be proud
Of the garlic-laced cloud
That I belched during yesternight’s meal.

So it’s really no wonder
That this morning’s thunder
From my bowels caused the whole house to squeal.

Passed at Repast

When sitting down to dinner, I chanced to flatulate.
My lady did object to this, and me she did berate:

“A grown man should have greater couth, than rectum resonate.
Our guests are turning green, and brown is covering their plates.”

Ashamed I tried to look, as I watched her perorate.
Yet soon I tired of hearing her, went to my room, and ate.

Decim-ate the Plate

I had to eat the extra portion;
Now my colon’s in contortion.

All of it went in my face;
I ate it all, and left no trace.
Already had I had enough
To keep me flabby in the duff

But then another plate I ate.
This caused my guts to detonate,
My whole meal ex-herniate,
And cloud of brown to radiate.

The misty plague took many hues.
In clothes and hair did it infuse;
The cloud caused all around to grieve
And beg for oxygen reprieve.

If you wish, your next mealtime, to survive,
Try not to be there after I arrive.

Dropping a Few Stone(s)

Losing weight is no big thing.
Every time my bottom sings
My latest meal takes its wings.

Beef Relief

Nothing gives the same relief
As bottom-belching smell of beef.
With gleeful pleasure is it vented,
Turgid air that’s pasture scented,
Crowd eraser quite beyond belief.

Now that I’ve my bowels unbunched
And cleared the room of all who lunched,
Relief has turned me to a grinner
Contemplating what’s for dinner.
What gas-inducing species should I munch?

Lamb Dinner

Dinner time, a joy to cram
A pile of mashed with chunks of lamb.

Stuffed replete, an easy sleep;
No need for counting fictive sheep.

Now I lay me down to bleat
With bah-bah-baahing from my seat.

Buffet Matter

Sitting at the buffet, that surely makes me fatter.
Sh*tting out the aftermath—that makes whole other matter.

Trouble South of the Border

Everything was exactly as ordered:
Bowl of chips and a giant burrito.
Now there’s trouble brewing south of the border
And behind of my little bandito!

Post-prandial Breeze

I love to smell the flowers,
I love to hear the trees,
But nothing makes me feel so good
As after-meal breeze!

Clearing the Air

Relationship

Few things more cause me beefy fart to rip
Than when I hear that word, relationship.

Great to Meet You

Great to meet the both of you,
And thank you for the meal.
Now with a hearty bottom-belch
I’ll tell you how I feel.

Mermaid's Breath of Life

I met a lovely maiden once,
While drowning in the sea.
I was thrashing like a dunce,
And she was watching me.

When finally my limbs grew tired
And limply I slipped under,
She caught me before I expired,
From sea withheld its plunder.

Since all my air had long been spent,
At last I let it go.
The ocean goddess then gave vent
In fathoms far below.

I breathed again, with great relief,
As we swam toward the air.
The gift of life, from mermaid’s queef,
This drowning man had spared.

Though that was many journeys back,
The memory’s not stale.
While she looked good above the crack,
The best part was the tail.

Wedding Chicken

The caterer’s not feeling well,
And wedding guests will soon taste hell.
He’s hurled in the wedding chicken,
Left it in the pan to thicken,
Faux pas guaranteed to sicken,
Leaving nuptial diners stricken.

Airing Things Out

“Tell me what you’re thinking; you shouldn’t hold it in.”
hus the last words I remember just before the din.
I broke my feelings as requested, all my thoughts imparted.
Unsatisfied, she then replied: “I can’t believe you farted.”

I thought to speak, then thought again, as she continued speaking;
My wind had broken all at once, while hers continued leaking.
Accustomed to the daily gale, I didn’t mind the talking,
But I was growing quite convinced that we should do some walking.

The utterance I’d shared had overtaken all our air;
The bubble from my colon now had swollen past repair.
This it was that had me in a state of blank despair.
Yet she resisted moving, as though bent to hold us there.

Soon it was I sensed her meaning, furthering our grief.
With whoopie-cushion flutter and a look of vast relief,
My lady changed the color of her white-no-longer briefs,
Then left me gasping in the cloud, from more than disbelief.

Did You Hear That?

The strangest thing has just occurred:
A ripping sound I thought I heard.
And judging by the eau-de-turd,
It came from under, where you’re furred.

The only mystery that remains:
Someone should check your shorts for stains.

The Cat that Shat

Your reputation, cat, exceeds
Your lack of hygiene; don’t you spread
The soil over steamy poo as soon as it is passed?

You bottom-breach Iscariot,
You didn’t even bury it,
But left it steaming fresh upon the grass.

Yet I am not without a heart;
Not easily from you I part.
On neighbor’s lawn let’s put you to harass!

Morning Surprise

Woke up late one cloudy morning,
Rain my verdant lawn adorning;
Special gift without forewarning
Left my sanity suborning.

What golden treasure met my eyes?
What caused systolic pulse to rise?
What bounty found I? Do surmise.
A steamy doggie doo surprise!

There they laid in lumpy pile
My lovely carpet to defile,
A few short inches from the tile.
And there sat Fido, with a smile.

All innocence, the cur smiled wide,
Aglow with doggie doo-doo pride.
His work he did not try to hide.
Now smiling Fido lives outside.

Ass-uming Airs

Olfactory Distress

It takes a fine finesse
To cause olfactory distress,
Without the slightest pitch inflection
That may lead to your detection!

Parfum La Doom

“Dear madame, can you tell me whence ensues that pungent plume?
It smells like blooms of Spring, trapped for days inside a tomb.
My parents’ bathroom smells the same, of floral-scented doom.”
“A curse on you for asking, what you smell is my perfume!”

Forced-air Heating

There once was a lad much too bold,
To wear jacket or coat in the cold;
With his own forced-air heat,
Which came out of his seat,
He’d stay warm, wrapped in thick, cloudy fold.

The Gassy Mingler

In social gatherings, I’m known to mingle;
From group to group I flit, a carefree single.

My secret? I adhere to social graces,
And leave before the looks upon their faces
Contort into expressions of despair
At pungent whispers from my derriere.

Paleo

In this hyper-educated age
When paleo is all the rage,
I know that some take moral issue
With a ripping from the tissue—
They deem it but aggression of a low and passive kind.

But while they’d rather clear the air
Or gale on body’s disrepair,
I find that I’m much more inclined
To vent my thoughts from my behind.

Why blabber on in endless words
To strive your point to sell,
When syllable from where you’re furred
Can speak it just as well?

What use for social conduct code?
That’s candy coating the commode
No spray of Spring-fresh sickly scent
Can sweeten aught from where we’re rent.

But if you’d rather be covert
And gas-face looks of horror avert,
Smile and speak in sweetest tones
As silently from ’tween your bones

You puff your pants with dry-gush wrought in hell:
Forget the tolling of the bell;
T’were better far to fear this knell
And—wait for it—the sulfur smell!

Dad the Ripper

I hardly mind
That my behind
Has fallen flab and loose—
What bothers me
Is when I pee
I poot the smell of deuce.

A passing stage
Or just my age?
It really matters not.
Beyond annoying
Are these cloying
Clouds of bottom rot.

But just perhaps
These fetid flaps
Blow blessings in disguise:
A good defense,
To cheek-dispense
A waterer of eyes.

So I decide
To override
My years of social shaping,
And take revenge
With nasal singe
And my own style of vaping.

An air-turd
In the theater
Can free a hundred seats,
And stink-ball
In the shopping mall
Can cause a mass retreat.

Who knew my greatest power
Would arise from where I’m sour?
From deepest inner being
Comes a stench to set them fleeing.
So come on, all you F’ers,
Smell the heat of hundred heifers!

Toxic gas to rust a zipper—
You can call me Dad the Ripper.

Tough Day at the Orifice

Bombs Away

Early morning, head is full of fog.
Bolt some java, squat down on the bog.
Open bomb-bay doors, it’s turds away!
I'm ready now to work. What else to say?

Behaving with Decorum

Sitting in my office chair,
Behaving with decorum;
Once I vent my lunch-time air,
It’s really gonna floor ’em.

The Emperor's Speech

“He’s frowning with such seriousness
But I can’t tell what’s the matter.”
“No worries; his imperiousness
Is just leaking out his bladder.”

After the Colon

This meeting has gone on for hours; your presentation’s swollen.
It’s not the “but”s I mind, but what follows from the colon.

Status Report

You asked me for my status,
In neatly bound reports.
In answer here’s my flatus,
Delivered through my shorts.

Contrail

It’s time to leave the meeting now—this deuce drop is behind me.
I’m leaving you a contrail just in case you need to find me.

Massive Outflow

Excessive poo is coming through your tunnel;
Perhaps it should be channeled with a funnel.
You’re sceptical? Your look is quite impassive.
No need to stew—I’ll lend to you my ass-sieve.

Office Gift Exchange

It’s time to have our gift exchange,
An office ceremony strange,
An awkwardness I used to dread—
But this time, special joy I’ll spread.

This year, I brought a special gift.
How special? Soon you’ll get the drift.

A heartfelt gift that has no price,
More savory than fruitcake slice,
A gift that has a special flavor,
One that all around can savor;
A gift from deep inside of me
That’s guaranteed to wilt the tree—
This gift to you I now impart:
A colon-cloistered Christmas fart.

Resignation, with Attachment

While sitting on the toilet, this communique was hatched.
A big relief, beyond belief, to tell you I’ve dispatched.
It’s no big deal, a worker and employer were mismatched.
I’m pressing Send now—hear the flush?—with giant log attached.

P(h)arting Gift

I used to work here, now I don’t. Too bad we had to part.
I guess you can’t let go, so why not hang on to this fart…

RRRIIIPPPP!!!

Creative (f)Arts

Twerky Toot

Blew a bum-cloud beefy rich,
So forceful, nearly burst a stitch.
Afraid that it would stain my pants,
I shook it free with twerky dance.

Solid Poem

It’s good to have a job; it pays the bills—
Yet nothing like a solid poem thrills.

What do I mean by solid? Drop a deuce?
For so a poem that’s unrhymed and loose

Of meter feels to me. Why sing at all
If it’s just random beats or caterwaul

Of shallow gut-wrench nonsense with a line
Break every now and then to form define?

Our words evaporate like transient vapor—
If written down, they ought at least to taper.

Cruel Stool

Had a turd that wouldn’t taper.
All I got was noxious vapor.
Need more greens—it was a scraper.

I know it could have been much worse,
This bottom-breaching colon curse:
It might have struggled out in verse.

Far(t) Trek

Captain Kirk was on the bridge when Scotty called in haste,
“Capt’n, she’s a gonna blow—we’ve got to vent this waste.”

The captain swiveled in his chair and yelled to Mr. Spock,
“If you could finish probing please… we need to pass this rock.”

The Vulcan bristled back his ears and lectured from his mouth,
“I’m going at my fastest speed, there’s trouble brewing south.”

Uhura interjected then, while showing off some thigh,
“I’m getting a distress call sir, a Klingon’s floating by.”

“Captain,” Mr Sulu said, “let’s use the tractor beam.
If we can aim exactly right, we’ll catch him in the stream.”

“Agreed,” the captain hollered and a stream emitted forth,
Then instantly he felt relief creep up from south to north.

He then remembered Scotty who had called him from the aft,
“Prepare the waste for venting; stick it in a shuttle craft.”

“Already done sir,” said the Scotsman, “let’s nay more delay.”
“Then fire,” barked the captain and the craft squeezed out from bay.

The giant vessel deeply groaned as it passed out the waste—
And somewhere on a nearby moon, it started raining paste!

Philosophical Ventings

Two Lips Flapping

There is an ancient koan
That still holds true today;
Sometimes the more an a-hole speaks,
The less it has to say.

What irritates surrounding air
And smells like someone’s crapping?
That blabbing through your derriere,
The sound of two lips flapping.

Tweet from the Seat

Some folks bloviate their minds
By posting onto twitter,
Pressing enter to commit a tweet.

Instead, I like to vent my hind
When sitting on the shitter,
Pressing flush once I have purged my seat.

Manifesto

I have no need for manifesto—
I bleat my creed with cheese and pesto.
If any need convincing still,
There’s more within my codicil.

Rumors

A whispered murmur in the wind,
Designed to give a start.
A cue word with intent to rend
A secret from your heart.
Intimations that you’ve sinned,
Each one a verbal dart.

These mumbles in the air no truth impart—
A rumor’s just another way to fart.

Dump Your Troubles

Problems are like poop:
Better to sit and dump them,
Then up and regroup.

Thought While Sitting

No venue have I found that’s fitter
For a leaking of my critter
Than old-fashioned sit-down shitter.

Sure, it’s fun to pee outdoors
Upon the wild and windy moors
But then the spray be-mists my drawers.

The same is true for low-mount sink,
The type from which you’d never drink,
The one that splatters minty stink.

Even with an out-board motor,
I’d rather share the bowl with floater.
That’s a fact, and you can quote ’er.

Contributions

Nothing mortal’s meant to last;
All good things end way too fast.
Thus I contemplate bare-assed
As last night’s meal is one more passed.

New adventures this day bode,
Brand new miles on mortal road;
Time to bear another load
For later sit-down on commode.

Thus we live until we can’t,
Contributing to treatment plant.

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt and sincere thanks to each and every one of you, dear and treasured readers. You’re the reason I keep writing. (Yes, this means you have only yourselves to blame!)

About the Author

A lifelong butt trumpeter and ass-piring author, Patch also plays video games, watches Asian television dramas, and studies the Korean language. For more poetry:

rhymeintimeblog.wordpress.com




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