The more
you work
to contain
the pressure
and not the real
cause of same
the more your labors
only serve
the power
of its inevitable release
leaving
a bird brain
with no sand
and only an ass
as himself
or some other
he only kissed
occasionally in first heading out
to find
what to bury it in.
And now,
as this shit
you already knew
wades through you
still will you
stoop to the stool
of that flushing bin
for any kind
or count of counters
of a while
for there's nothing
else left
to wonder of.
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