Busted-up Bottom

I’ve got a busted-up bottom,
and I know I’ve only myself to blame.
When I ate that hot sauce last night,
I knew I was playing a dangerous game.

‘Carolina reaper’ chillies,
Blended with some other cocktail for heat.
It’s perforated my sphincter,
Looks like a popped balloon or shredded meat.

It was a lovely meal I’ve ruined;
A stunning parfait with guava.
Then I had to go and ruin it all,
now my ass is leaking lava.

It’s a steady stream of magma,
Molten brown mouse-texture.
Now my fresh white porcelain,
is coated in muddy vesture.

The consistency is quite odd,
Like in the film Alien – the acid blood.
It’s scorching my posterior,
Removing more hair than waxing would.

If you listen very closely,
you can hear it sizzling.
I’m not convinced it isn’t radioactive,
judging by the way it’s fizzling.

Incendiary blistering and sulphurous,
The water begins to boil as it lands.
So much has come out already,
I might have to catch it in my hands.

Though I’m afraid it’ll burn me,
It’s something to behold.
Though it might take skin off my fingers,
this story must be told.