"old folks got troubles everywhere--"

You are only as good
as the asshole you show
to the world, the one
you carry with you
and reveal on special
occasions to your
closest friend...
your proctologist,
who gets paid to examine
your asshole and what lies
within the cavern of your
rectum, sometimes even
greasing a tiny camera
up your ass while you
sleep, heavily sedated
(like Joey Ramone),
only to reveal later,
when you come out of
slumber the beauty
hiding behind your
sphincter muscle.

We all get old unless
of course we die young,
then maybe we're lucky
not to suffer the
infirmities of the
body, the need to
sit on the toilet
for hours, wondering
why it hurts so bad
to shit the crap we ate
yesterday or last week.

Welcome to the over the
hill gang, you could have
died young but you chose
to stick it out for this
moment on the crapper,
on the throne even royalty
endure. Imagine the
Queen of England, Elizabeth II
on her own throne, your
highness, at her lowest
point, sitting with her little
white ass on the throne, her
sphincter muscle pulsing,
pushing until the fecal
discharge releases, God
Save the Queen! She has
her infirmities to deal with
just like you, old age loves
to toy with those who
struggle to have a regular
bowel movement, James
Dean doesn't have to
worry about his
shit anymore, not like
the Queen of England,
Scotland, Wales, and
Northern Ireland. Great
Britain hasn't had a
royal live so long to
shit since Victoria, God
rest her bleeding sphincter.

I hope for the sake of
humanity my sphincter
doesn’t collapse into a
voracious black hole
sucking in every object
until not even light can
escape its vortex, its
savage hunger to swallow
the finite in its infinite
appetite to mange, mange,
mange the fuck out of
the world. It is simply an
asshole like any other but
watch out for those teeth.

As I leap towards 47 my
body lets me know it is
driven to fail, to collapse,
a red giant, a white dwarf,
my anus has released
horrors of pain, grief and
sorrow, desire and
frustration in merciless
excrement exploding into the
bowl, from my bowels to the
porcelain shit-stained graffiti
only a soothsayer can divine
the augury, like birdsong.

Welcome to getting
older, wisdom hard
fought from the front
line of the firing
range, pull no punches,
this may be your last
shot at greatness, let the
shit slide down your
cheeks, slip-sliding
away, into the pristine
waters only a dog would
drink, blood comes at
times, internal
hemarrhoids, filling the
water red with
crimson silence. Your
appointment to the
proctologist, your
friend in waiting, lets
you know the blood and
pain will eventually go
away, and you can go
home, relax your mind as
the old hole longs for
death, you choose to
prolong the pain through
an ill-conceived belief in
an afterlife of punishment
or bliss, you fucking moron,
your asshole knows more
than your brain ever will,
listen to your body, end it all
while you can before the
doctors put you on opiates,
then you are fucked for good,
right up the old asshole, until
death do we part, ashes, ashes
we all fall down, the black
plague, AIDS, HIV, and
death. You're welcome to
join the reaper in her harvest.