All Comments on 'shit poem'

this poem would be more constipated but...oops I really mean butt. There's a place for this........... FLUSH.

Hey I have a shit scented Bic poem too! I think we have the same muse!!!

You are onto something here....quite good. The only thing is, I did not feel like I raped you when I read the poem, it is difficult to give the reader that experience. I could smell the shit but it was still on someone else's fingers. Hmm. Interesting. I hope you share more.

I am going to put this up on the New Poems Reviews in the forum.

http://forum.literotica.com:81/showthread.php?p=21471262#post21471262

a shitfuck poem

whetting the stanky side,

the only side of me

compulsive as i disable

my filth filter again.

In turbulent flux between oral and anal phases, the poet conflates the tormenting demands of mother, lover and audience for his next 'performance'. The immediate protagonist is mother (masquerading as lover) who, riddled with destructive anxiety for her vulnerable infant (her bitten, jagged fingers chafe his anus) attempts to force an adult association between nurture and self-determination (line 7) at a traumatically early age, not least of all because physical mass ("big fat bitch") is key to her conception of power and security. Understandably, the poet (acting on his sublimated craving for mother's milk) rejects the "rancid" proposal, prefering to criminalize the quasi-matriarch for her (perceived) cruelty (anal rape).

We, the audience, are implicated because the beseiged output of the poet's sacred bowels is at once the output of his poetic soul (his "inspiration"). It is, after all, for our delectation that mother (as "muse") channels the flow of that 'material'. As if to ram the point home, her chosen instrument of torture is a poet's only tool, a pen. Here, it taunts the poet as an agency of inward penetration rather than outward expression.

Ultimately, and with magnificent defiance, the poet rounds on his tormentors. He equates the constipated pomposity of formal poetry ("pathetic self absorbed narcissistic") with the repression and regulation of his bowels through premature toilet training. In this context, the "motherfuckers" of line 16 are a (perceived) collective of controlling violators in mother's definitive style. All are confronted with the odious product of their tyranny ("smell my rape shit poem") while (damaged but victorious!) the poet emerges, as if from some primal, sulfurous vapour, with his expressive freedom intact.