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Mr. Goodwrench Does Mrs. Butterworth
he could never quite
get all the grease
from busted knuckles or fingernails
socially introperverted
eating pancakes
pouring syrup over his stack
lubricated him just enough
to get his boner
in the bottle
her caramel enticing figure
apron tied in back
buttons down her bodice
& puritan collar
drove him into a frenzy
closing his eyes in ectasy
he caressed her glass figure
pretending the rim
was her lips
to his sadness
she had no legs
his jism cloud floated
lava lamp like
settling in Mrs. B.'s bottom
the mechanics he worked with
always wondered why
the flies liked him so much
& he couldn't get the zipper
down on his overalls
they all went to his house
for breakfast though
Maybe laxatives hadn't
been invented, when I
was a boy. Or mama
never had the money.
We ate a hell of a lot
of beans and tortillas.
Sometimes I couldn't shit
for two or three days.
Mama must have read
a book written by a Nazi
torturer, about child rearing.
She'd whittle an asshole
sized plug from a bar of soap.
Then work up a lather
and jam it up my ass.
Squirming on the pot,
usually nothing happened.
Once in awhile I'd drop
a couple. She'd run in
grinning. "See honey,
it's for your own good."
My secret wish was
I could use my ass
like a cannon. I'd blow
that plug and an eight
inch turd into mama's
mouth. And say, "It
really worked that time,
I'd spit that out if
I was you."
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