Bedfellow of Shit

I understand any with fainter hearts amongst you
or those blessed with more delicate
poetic sensibilities
shall not thank me for my assertion,
yet by it I intend no offense--
for I have come at last to realize
modern poetry is the bedfellow of shit

Most days
its words strain onto the page
to a trickle of private self applause
a dutiful regularity splashing mysteriously
before purging the subconscious
like a whip

The poet squats or sits
paying homage
to gods of literary defecation
watching sinkers and floaters emerge
their steaming sentences
a holy arrangement of thought turd pearls
to be smeared adoringly
on the internet's almighty porcelain

And unless I'm mistaken
even the meanest
glisten of tumbling words
serves to define who we are
fueling mockery at random
an extra nipple suckled by the tongue of the world
its ritual expulsion from the mind
an explosive drug we cling to
unbuttoning the truth
that must seed any virgin gravitas birth

So we flush
gasp
click--
our satisfaction
almost complete
waiting for strangers
to wipe our poetic asses
and tell us
what a fine wee jobby that was
before we can blunder through the day
wallowing in self sought praise
freshened always
by the dumber stink of reality
sniffing ruefully
at the industrious guts of a whore