Farts and Other Unmentionable Body Functions
The following light verse poems deal with various once
unmentionable body functions:
Putt...Putt...Putting Things Off
Buried in blankets past eight,
My farts range from tuba to flute:
I can't wake just yet, but it's late,
So I'm trying to get a round toot.
Skip To The Loo
"Get out of bed if that's what you're going to do!"
I comply tout suite,
Performing loudly all the way to the loo
A toot suite.
Taste the Full Rich Flavor
All Janitors pray there's a circle of hell
Where stale cigarettes clog up each urinal
And doomed careless smokers are driven by whips
To retrieve soggy butts, not with fingers, but lips.
Oh Oh, Toto DooDoo?
Did Dorothy make it back from Oz -
By red shoe's magic glow towed?
She did, but landed rough because
Her red shoes had been Toto'd!
Dog spelled backwards is God -
O mon Dieux! -
For a backward dog - how odd! -
Reply to Pissed-Off Feminists
Why is it that the SONS inherit land?
They'll stay, for even when they go, they stand.
One can't rely upon those shiftless daughters --
Pees de Resistance
Each boy assumes his piss stance,
Going for distance.
The Seat of the Soul
The human soul -- a riddle: It is an absence,
not flesh, not any "thing, yet has quality
and inhabits flesh and is, essentially,
what one IS.
Inhabits the body -- but which part?
For some reason, we prefer to think
it favors one part over another, has,
as it were, a control cabin, perhaps
an instrument panel, something like
It has been variously said to occupy
the heart, the stomach, the liver, the navel,
the brain, etc. I will contemplate
the soul's enigma, make it my mantra:
A soul a soul a soul a soul asoul asoul asole assole as-
sole ass...asshole? Ah! So? Yes!
Once seen, it's so obvious! We've solved
the riddle of the sphincter, the enema's enigma!
We've found the suppository I mean
repository of the soul!
When we die (and haven't we always known this) --
when we die, the assholes live on!
A hole has no substance, but certainly a quality,
and certainly the asshole tries to rid the flesh
of corruption (eliminating the idolatry associated
with the Baal movement) to make it a suitable dwelling
for holiness -- and is itself, if nothing else, holy.
But once freed of flesh, to what greater glory
can assholes aspire? Consider how
at the end of time the last shall be first?
Consider that the Lord needs his children
because his Love is without BOTTOM.
Consider, too, how the lukewarm (those
who don't give a shit) are to be cast out.
Consider how souls in distress become ghosts
and haunt us with strange noises and effluvia.
Consider angels -- their trumpeting -- and
Lucifer -- how he flared up in the night sky,
a match made in Heaven, angelic ARSE-on.
Consider how the materialist thinks he will vanish
entirely into the grave because he can't tell
his asshole from a hole in the ground.
Consider our fear of serpents and detestation
of sodomy. Consider the mournful sound
of high pure oboe-ish farts, the earth-shaking
trumpeting gusto of deep ripping farts,
the room-filling fetor of sulphurous silent farts
(the silence of despair). Soul music!
The asshole speaks for us more eloquently
than any tongue could. Consider that "spirit"
means "wind". Consider that those we call tight-assed
are as unholy as they are unholey. Consider
that when we want someone, it is the ass
we want (as in, "Get your ass over here now!").
Consider that, as Christ multiplied the loaves
and fishes, the asshole cuts (thereby multiplying)
the cheese and mustard, no doubt to flavor
the fish sandwiches. Consider that "anus" means
a ring, and thus the asshole, a finger of spirit,
wears the body as a ring to show it is promised
Consider that the soul is a reflection of God Himself,
and moreover, consider the quality of divine Love
that created this vale of tears and teargas.
Consider war, Holocausts, sitcoms, the recent
I am what man calls love: A piece of ass.
I bring you joy: Light matches as I pass.
Though now in flesh, I have, myself, no mass.
Though rather plain, seen darkly in this glass,
My droppings make a splendor in the grass;
My rich pure blatant calls out-blurt the brass.
Once free of flesh, I'll simply be a gas!
Meanwhile the head thinks IT'S in charge -- so facile!
To humble it, I stick it up my asshole.
To get about that way, is quite a hassle;
I do it for the glory of my asshole.
But don't abuse your body; it's the castle
(O phallus palace!) wherein dwells the asshole;
So don't become some sodomist's sore vassal!
Oh do not let him vaseline your asshole!
A soulless world is nothing but a jungle
Wherein we stray and err and sin and bungle;
Wherefore I pray the Lord to bless my bunghole
And cleanse of fleshy filth my dirty dunghole,
Which here is but some pervert's pungent tongue-goal,
But There, with Thee, 'mid Heavenly Hosts, quite gung ho'll
Be forever more, farting joyous wassails
With passels and passels and passels of Heavenly assholes,
And then, no more among you lowly asses,
We pious assholes -- we'll get ALL the lasses!
More Bang Than Whimper?
The world is said to end in Revelations.
Indeed, that end, though fiery, would be neater.
For many boys, it STARTS with Revelations
In the John that lead to Acts with Peter.
Build Thee More Stately Mansions, O My Pole
E-mail after urgent e-mail tells me
my penis is too small. Poor shy hunched-up
love button, however did they
find you out?
My wife says I'm just fine -- no doubt
to spare me the embarrassment.
For her considerateness,
doesn't she deserve another three inches?
Don't we all?
But what if I go for it and love
the feeling of my erection getting
an erection? What if it's addictive,
"better than sex"? "Honey, 12 inches
is enough!" "Please, just three more inches
and then I'll quit, honest!" -- my wife
finding my laptops hidden in closets,
beneath cushions, as the top of my lap
becomes impossible to hide.
What if, at 36 inches (not a third leg,
but a yard arm), I develop satyriasis?
No toga could camouflage it. It would require
its own crotch crutch. Where would I put it?
Would it leave the rest of me bloodless?
Would my sperm, half way down the endless tunnel,
give up, turn back, colliding with those
still on the way, create a massive traffic jam,
growing until my sperm-delivery mechanism resembles
an ostrich swallowing a tennis ball?
How many women would die in the effort
to deep throat me (going down for a record)?
Would my skin stretch to cope with my erection
or would I burst like an over-fried sausage?
Would I have to register it as a lethal weapon?
Would a 36-inch organ become obsolete
if we converted to the metric system?
On the bright side, what fun to lie beneath
the tented blankets like a kid camping out!
Walking to the shower, I could drape my towel
over it, freeing my hands to hold weights
behind my back as counterbalance. I could make love
to a woman with bad breath -- from a distance.
I could get into S and M and use it
as a whip. It would be flexible and responsive
for fishing, handy for surveying
("This room is 10 square boners in area").
Penis duels could replace fencing
as an Olympic event -- "Touché! A prick!"
During the Xmas season, I could lie
on my back, my extra limb decorated
with evergreen boughs, my balls like gifts
beneath the tree. From a safe distance,
I could put out fires. In restaurants
no need for footsy -- it could rest
on her lap (she sitting across the table).
And I could give myself head, which is
almost like being God (my rod and
my staff, they shall comfort me)!
But even limp, there'd be no hiding
the snake that would go with me.
Penises (peni?) aren't like tape measures
or vacuum cleaner cords -- press the button
and they zip back out of view.
I might have to avoid rooms with
rocking chairs -- though I'd be in demand
for jump rope. Hey, Babe, wanna see
If it did shrink to modest size,
what gross fungi might thrive in such
warm, moist and deeply rumpled skin?
(Fun-guy fungi?) "Dear, you've been in
the shower for an hour now." "Sorry,
I just had to do my prick."
I see the diabolical scheme: Once we've all
become monstrous, we'll be inundated with ads
for penis shrinkers: "Tired of riding buses
with the 20-volume OED on your lap? Tired
of strangers wanting to autograph it?
Do your dates faint or run screaming
from the bedroom when they see your gear, Dear?
Is the burning core of your love life
obese? Doesn't your petite lover deserve
a svelte, wiry, lean, mean machine?
Give yourself the elegant organ you deserve!
Take off three inches the first week. Absolutely
guaranteed -- as shown on network television!
No surgery required."
'S Alive, Alive O
Where does my head find room
for all this rheum?
The Greeks stuff our heads with their lost
consonants, for surely flem would flow,
but phlegm collects, stuck in our craws
by its magic spelling, attached by the
hooks and eyes of silent consonants, sticky
as catarrh, a word far more ticklish than mere
catar -- it gargles silently at the end;
yellow strands of gaped catarrh are so strong
you could strum your catarrh guitarrh.
These spellings forebode an age when,
from blobs of body fluid are extracted
intricate, prickly helices of DNA.
Roman spit is simply slimy. Mucus
could not muck us so. Saliva has no glut
of consonants. Dr. Saliva is villainous,
but slick, stroking his Persian cat
while contemplating (with a wistful smile)
our imminent demise.
From Romans comes romance. Saliva
isn't stuck to our throats to be coughed up.
It lubricates the twining, serpentining tongues
of our kisses, alive with the taste of us.
We are made mostly (moistly) of mucus,
though we cannot puke us.
Practical Anglo-Saxons don't care
what it's made of, only what they can
do with it (spit it out) and what it's
worth (spit!). "Spit" is the shape
of the expulsive lips and tongue
at the instant our fluids cease to be
attached to us, all that Greek glue
and Latin slipperiness become a little
spittle, accidental shpritz in your eye
or thick drapery hanging from blades of grass
(Will the grass be genetically altered
by my prolific genes, osmosed from my spit?
Will grass, thus enhanced, take over the world?
What will my grass-children be like?
Shaggy? Prickly? Invasive? Hard to mow?
but I digrass...)
or a dare clinging to an enemy's cheek or
scum on the sidewalk -- something that is
not us, as alien as a bird dropping:
"Yecch!" says he, stepping in it, who,
a moment before, nestled his tongue in it.
And yet, practical Anglo-Saxon, who never pull
your consonant unless you intend to use it,
when, instead of randomly spraying, you
AIM your spit, you must collect it with care
and be persnickity about positioning it
for launching. Therefore you return
to a Greeklike construction, "pt..." as in
ptomaine or Ptolemy, rudely leaving nothing
We have no adequate word for the pre-ptui hawk.
The entire operation should be called
Chhhreet-PTUI! With spittoon, add "Ding!"
or (if sand-filled) "Splat!"
Too lazy to spray or aim, we drool (how droll),
we let it all hang out, unraveling in rivulets
Anglo-Saxons create, thus, sounds
for every variety of expulsion, but borrow
Latin and Greek for the quality of the thing
itself: Greek for it's being inextricably
entangled with us, Latin for the taste
and texture of us, Anglo-Saxon for the ways
we discover it is not us -- or (if it is us)
for the ways (percussive or gentle, focused or sprayed
or dripped) we give ourselves to wind, grass,
dirt, ocean, stone, a bully's eye, the
sheets and pillow cases of our first
and last beds.
Tiny droplets of it accompany our every spoken word.
You take my words off the page, but hear,
inwardly as you read, a voice speaking.
Can you feel the spray, the fine, rainbowed mist
A Slight Turbulence
At first it's just a softly percussive,
tight-lipped pssss on each exhale
(Let it be a soothing sound,
I tell myself, lying there, no more awake,
really, than usual), but something
begins to flutter (lips? uvula?
some flap deep in the throat?), some
moist flag unfurled,
as if you inhale "slum" and exhale
(rolling out the R's) "berrrrr,"
slummberrr, slumbrous, slumber
(I cannot -- but maybe it'll stop),
but now it crescendos, getting rough
at the edges, from susurrous slumber
to ripsawed lumber, how cumbersopme,
and louder, like a child, turning hard
"CH" (a sound unknown to your waking
tongue) into gunshots, rifle shots
(hear that trailing whistle), planes
crashing, prolonged explosions:
EEEYOWMMMM, screams the child,
"Here comes the jet plane, straight
down EEYELMMM....KCHHHHHHHHHH!" --
that vowelless rasp, the harsh K
of contracted throat yielding to become
sprays of aspirated air and spit agains
the roof of the mouth, lips now
mere spectators, relaxed, fluttering
in the gale -- can this be breathing?
How can it not wake you? I touch
your shoulder -- the sound stops instantly,
only air, uncluttered with consonants,
passing in and out. But you are still
on your back; it will soon start over;
so I touch you again, gently shake you,
this time wake you, ask you to sleep
on your side. You can't believe me
(you say, only half-joking), insist
such noise could not have been, would
surely have wakened you --
and so it did, in a way, for am I not
part of you? No, I suppose not, though
earlier, kissing, I perhaps breathed into you
some of the molecules you've been exhaling
so forcefully (Out! Out!). I wish I felt
more dire about the whole thing, because
what a simile! A nation (ours) creates
with loud explosions anguish elsewhere
(we're told), and we, in quiet suburbs,
slumber on. When protesters prod us,
we plead, surely if we were doing
such things, we'd know it -- we'd be
wakened by bomb blasts and screams.
But I just thought of that, hours
into the next day, while trying here
to make something of your snores.
What I feel when you snore is neither
serious nor comic -- though, God knows,
I gree up hearing enough radio-sit-com
jokes about spouses annoyed by/denying
snoring (always the husband's).
Mostly, what your snoring means to me
(there's the start of a never-to-be written
elementary school essay!) is, first,
we're both too heavy; second, scary,
our attachment to this capricious thing,
breath, that insists on a life of its own,
as do our hearts; scary to depend on
pumps and bellows to be with each other,
to know that a touch will bring you back
to me -- breath permitting; third,
how nice to lie beside you, breathing,
even snoring, snorts full of the warmth
of sheets and each other, flesh smells,
the thought of a long smile -- a thought
that is instantly a smile, intimate
undulation of mucus membranes, tag-ends
of hidden flesh a flutter, one of us
dreaming, the other listening, curious,
almost glad, as we pass 60 (years, not
miles per hour), of the assurance:
a breathing so aggressive, it can't
be missed or only missed by you,
because you're deep in dreams;
deep enough, perhaps, to be cast free
of our mortal dependencies,
like a swimmer whose strokes become
a slow flowering in buoyant blue voids;
so that this raspy noise I hear is
the negative of dreams, the reverse
of the tapestry -- and I, listening
to what your dreams are not, share them,
am most part of you by knowing myself
or some such tangle of reasons might explain
why (besides not wanting to upset you) I
regretted having to wake you.
copyright c. 2005 by Dean Blehert. All Rights Reserved.