Eating Shit


This is my last memory: This is as far as it went. This is junk and all of its sins. This is humanity in its deepest filth. This is a soul furthest from source. This is dirt and junk and Satan and death and a dead man killing himself more. This is a body without life, searching for poison. More dead. More raunch. More hate and evil.


It sat in the water; my life was an old, filthy toilet. It was well formed, a regular log and not diarrhea like the usual shit I was dumping, and stared back from the bowl, straight into the depths of my soul. It was light brown and normal, like some sort of twisted foreshadowing of light in my future. My life was x rated, not sexually, just in the extremes of its lewdness, in how far I went to get what I needed, in what sat inside my womb-like bowels, and how I treated the fetus-heroin-baby I loved, in how shit was all that was left, staring back and knowing its power and coming alive in a toilet and speaking in shit-tongues to my madness. I was used to loose stools, and years of illness and misery, like my insides gave up and spewed liquid out of habit each day, like all of my nourishment shot out my rectum without being absorbed through my cells, but this piece was different, it was nice and well-formed. Its smell engulfed me, telling me what was happening. I whiffed my fate, my filthy, fowl, and disgusting destiny; it was better than sex, and beautiful women, and nights in the bar with my friends in Fort Collins. It was perfect and pure and loving, staring straight into my toilet-life nightmare.