Poetry

Enema

The Enema Not for the faint of heart, nor the prudish soul, But a quiet ritual, reaching deep, Where warm solution, gravity-controlled, Begin the slow, internal sweep. No harsh chemicals, just water, tepid, mild, To loosen

Comet

Across the ink‑black sky a wanderer glides, An icy traveller with a silver‑bright tail, Its heart of frozen dust ignites as it slides, Leaving a gossamer trail that whispers of tales. It

Tweed

In misty highlands where the heather sighs, A weaver’s loom sings low beneath grey skies, Threads of wool, in muted earthen hue, Are spun to tweed, both sturdy and true. Worn by

Belch

A rumbling rose from dinner's end, A humble belch, a gentle friend— A puff of air, a cheeky sigh, Escaping loud where flavors lie. In bustling pubs or quiet tea, It breaks the

Ought

You ought to rise with dawn's pale light, Though bones insist on heavier weight. You ought to smile, behave just right, While inner storms debate their fate. You ought to work, to

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