something in the air

have you ever heard, perhaps?
the fart that sounds like a thunderclap
it booms and rings deep in your head
entering from eardrums shattered red

then there’s the one that sneaks up, behind
sly, surreptitious but well-timed
it comes and goes without a trace
lingering on many a contorted face

what about the one, that chugs and coughs along
like an ageing rockstar trying one last song
it wheezes and struggles to get out
an asthmatic gasp from deep south

then there are those, that wet the briefs
a pregnant cloud of insufferable grief
once free, they pollinate with aplomb
searching, scalding like a napalm bomb

and of course, some just go on and on
like a happy beer drinker in the john
resting maybe for a pause or two
then blaring forth with vigour anew

speak not of those, with a will possessed
indisciplined, impossible to suppress
they slip out at the wrongest of times
and pinpoint the owner, with a signature chime

and then there’s the crowd favourite
Ol’ El Stinko that all love to hate
the bastard that no one calls his own
as victims cringe and cry and collectively moan

so my friends, stop, sniff, ponder
does absence make the heart grow fonder?
and should you come across a new flavour
don’t tell me- it’s all yours to savour.

ram cobain

booger woogie

sneaky eyes scout the room
ah it’s empty as king tut’s tomb
the moment is right, the finger’s ready
the heart flutters with a joy quite heady

the right hand moves up through the air
happy, expectant, without a care
the index finger, stiff as a pole
lustily enters the pleasure hole

excavation begins with a gentle probe
like a palm caressing a woman’s robe
the pace quickens as the finger finds
a biggie to excite both soul and groin

yup, it’s a huge one alright
round, dark and squishy moist
fresh and hot, with little hairs sticking
like ripe peaches ready for picking

rubbery nice, like potter’s clay
it’s easy to shape, easy to play
ah what joy the hand can extend
when there’s a nose that’s willing to lend

proud fingers knead it to a ball
happy as a girl’s first barbie doll
dabbing up pieces of baby snot
for only bit by bit makes a lot

now the party is over, the larder’s bare
the joy’s receding, the evidence stares
but disposal’s easy when the body is able
the hand rubs quietly under the table

behold then, the moral of this story:
“inside each of us lies our glory”
and doesn’t it show that god loves you
when there isn’t one nostril but two?

ram cobain