Bowel

For Smelly...

I saw the best guts of my generation destroyed by fiberlessness, cramped hysterical constipated,
dragging themselves through convenience store aisles at dawn looking for an angry fix of Fibercon,
middle-aged hipsters yearning for heavenly relief to the stopped up intestinal dynamo in the machinery of crap,
who poor in diet and exercise and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of finished basements submerged beneath suburban homes contemplating colonics,
who bared their ass to porcelin, and struggling, saw Mohammedan angels dancing on toilet paper rolls issuing gastronomical fatwahs,
who passed through universities in The Bronx among scholars of Star Trek,
who were expelled from bars and penned obscene odes to Landladies and McFinken,
who cowered unshaven in hotel rooms while Joey Ramone made long distance phone calls he would not pay for,
who got busted on Mummers Day while carrying ladies' underwear,
who ate frenchy ones in Clifton and drank buckets of Rocks in Flinstone muraled bar rooms,
with dreams of the muffiin circuit, and waking nightmares of moose lodge shows, alcohol and endlessly chuckling, black vested supermarket clerks,
but at last, Guinness did not count as whole grain food.
BOWEL!


Feel better Smelly.