306. a poop on its own isn’t thinking on roses

a poop on its own isn’t thinking on roses,
it’s trying to get to the sea for disposal —
racking its mind with machines and devices
to help on its journey from flushing to rising

as existences go, it’s quick (not that slow),
but frantic — the one thing a poop has been told:
if it finds itself trapped in a sewer with fat
it won’t ever get to see poop fairyland

poops haven’t much in their brain (or their gut),
and won’t if you ask them the time or discuss it,
they’re not very nice, unclean, compromised (are)
probably stuffed full of small parasites

but each poop from birth to its end in this world
imprinted on whatever brain function serves:
don’t get up too close cause methane explodes,
and true poop the fat doesn’t clean off of clothes

mosely and musa, researchers reputed
in mind and the meaning of what you exclude when
for reasons of keeping your body food free (from),
collect it a bucket (in) when you excrete it

had tested and traced from origins (grain,
meat, maybe, fruit) and contemplated the
history, hives, controversial disguises
they’d used to trick melody women working on lines

they’d seen and discovered four poop conjunctures
lost at the foot of a mountain of mud, where
poops do converge every year to confer
if poop is a singular, a plural, or verb

they’ve talken to scribes in nepalese tribes
where poop is for fuel for worship combined,
and learned that the last thing a poop will demand if
it’s left on its own: to encounter a fatberg
(cont.)