Gone with the Wind

I consider bathroom humor the lowest
form of humor.  When I hear it, my face
becomes flushed.  I cringe, I pose like 
a broken sentence, vowels askew,
consonants unkempt, words like
guacamole.  It remains standard
fare, however, this comedy
ala commode,

in sophomoric movies, in some television
offerings blundered by purveyors of such
schmuck.  A one, and a two, procurers
of disjunctive digestion in catacombs. 
It is there, a miasma of inauspicious
spoil, and I remain in couch potato
sloth to surf, thumbing remote like
some Neanderthal hunter; so many
channels appear and whiz on by
like golden flow, streams extant
as if spring sings, as if all dumps
are free of flies and I
espy the residue.

Yea, I am privy to said stuff,
brash blunt fill, bulk murk in bagpipe,
this lumpy puncture rubble. Sought for
giggles by way of bidet, the narrowness of
outhouse laugh, regurgitation of repast makes
not for snicker symphony, nor guffaws clanging
chamber pots...no, not for me--perhaps for John,
(Oh John, my John), come marching home
and seek the comfort station here, a
Tara Mansion elegant as wee wee
drollery drifts with
the wind.

33 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
3-25-16