the shits

i am wading in the shits
i am wading avant-garde for mother
i hold out my hands
for a soft fingertip on pursed lips
i find some small treasures
sometimes on dark trips
my jaw is clenched
but i throat-deep
in dicks
you can smile at me from over there
on your mossy perch
still i am
swimming in your tricks
on the intestine floor
i find tiny pricks
of smoky sapphire and amethyst
and pearls of blistering ulcers
and i see myself
when i go under
i go down, down, down
i close my eyes
and swallow