In fluted trills, trumpeting, booty blares.
Orifices agape with brotherly love – bursting
broken limbs, demons, a bored monk blurts
forth a fart. Precious ink, lapulis and gold held
in, bursting out of ink wells and parchment,
no holding back. This tuckus toots.
Butt triumphant, a-heralding of glories to come.
In hell, get stuffed, pour forth. In heaven,
a bouquet, a posy in pink and blue.
Goatse is nothing new. Boschian bleating bums
in the key of see: butt music, a garden of earthly delights.
Na/GloPoWriMo Day Twenty-Two asks us to cross disciplines:
“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.”
I’ve long been a secret Medievalist at heart, and desperately love manuscript marginalia where scribes, in their long days of copying calligraphy (and perhaps a little touched by paint fumes) scribbled their passing thoughts, their jokes, their curses, their day-dreams, and their horrors. I originally thought of writing this about killer bunnies, but I quickly moved into butts, butt-trumpets, butt-music, and the many butts of Bosch.
Some reference images: