“All’s dung in, dung out,” cried Bowel on Legs.
If there’s no meaning, if no final One
Which as the Omega is meaning’s meaning,
If all just happens then one day is done,
Then be it gruel and a sop, or foie gras and champagne,
Nothing is pitiful, nothing is vain:
“All’s dung in, dung out,” cried Bowel on Legs.
I made eyes at the girl in the grocery store,
She smiled then flared into a pus-filled sore.
I soothed a weeping abandoned child,
It clawed me like a spitting bear-cub riled.
Through webchats and podcasts I signed up for the good,
But the conveners turned devils and cavorted in blood.
“And all’s dung in, dung out,” cried Bowel on Legs.
If from birth’s moment we’re dropped to our dying,
Stranded with physics where we longed for meaning,
If half are lying and the rest are crying,
Then each slow day’s a defecation
Never to be a deification:
“And all’s dung in, dung out,” cried Bowel on Legs.
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© June 2021
