by Harry Fagel ~ March 31st, 2012. Filed under: Poetry.

Waking up I felt the inflammation in my anus
A thing that throbbed and whistled I needed
to scratch it but you know once you scratch your butt the itch tends to get worse and worse and worser then the gift a bowel movement from somewhere deep inside the center of my colon an aching need for release that pounded my intestines like tiny fists I hoped it would be quick
So I sat on the bowl
Oh the humanity
Was all I could think as link after link of pain and frustration and misery and wheat germ uncoiled from me and
plopped plopped plopped in the azure water
It seemed I sat for a day but it was only about 48 minutes
I rose and surveyed
The ugliness was unsurpassed in these clean times so
I flushed it away gasping for breath in the uprising choking chlorine that suddenly seemed to rise from everywhere
Now the wipe
I prayed for a clean clip
for white paper to stare back at me after one or two diligent swipes
Alas it was not to be
swipe wipe swipe wipe swipe
like the fields of Alaska after the Valdez tragedy my ass was it’s own
Prince William Sound
Peppering the landscape with endless smears of tar.
I knew I was doomed the itching now a Living twitching thing that tortured me my rectum an everlasting gobstopper of butt agony and
Wipe swipe wipe swipe wipe wrap paper around the finger jam it up again and again and still brown Crayola mocking me poisoning my world with its fetid redundancy
So I stood but clenching and unclenching urging me to itch
Itch itch
Honey let’s go
And that day my clean white underwear nestled against the weirdly engorged button of my shame
Ageing gracefully is for people in “ensure” commercials I thought
As I cruised the aisles of the local Pharmacy praying for a swatch of carpet to rub my naked bum upon like some cracked-out beagle unicycling across the rug
but I had a cure in mind
Where do you keep your anal itch creams and ointments I shyly ask
AISLE #B yelled loudly and with just the barest hint of
And I tromp over and find it emblazoned in mile high letters on the box
I carry my nasty little secret to the checkout
of course a Fine babe in front of me and one behind
the price check was inevitable
No I don’t age gracefully
And I believe in Karma
Victim of my laughter
All my childhood long
At preparation H commercials and the
Suffering of Hemorrhoids
by the aged.

©2012 Harry Fagel

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