The flagon fills my senses
with nashiness, like a
bad pootie tam on a
boiled florentine nib.
It ain’t easy being
a bathroom stall. One might
be encouraged to believe
the sight lines reflect a
positive expose’ of
But the flesh ain’t fresh and
it’s positively not reflected
in the langoine oasis of
Words find their way to
my waliforms. Vulgar words.
Words that harass the membranes
of warbled tooties.
Designs of phlox drudgeries
escape from the artistic dreameries
and elope into colorful mutations
that party dress my outer being.
I’m violated in the most obensilly
numbness and no one cares. They clean
around my waliforms, freshen the airiness
with smelts of crumagen, modify the
foot foundations and humify the
prestoleum foils of zumber.
But they ignore me. My
scars, my defects. My war paint
remains for each new visitor
to transcript the imaginable.
It’s a bathroom stall. So please,
next time you visit, have a little
composition for my flecticide. If not,
you can take your prendaballs and
send them up your assimulations.