Flatulence And Pressure Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

I fail me
when I think
to write of me
I float; inside any
prose, just below the
surface, of modern men.
This movement is without
rhythm; interwoven out of
filthy air, and blinded I stagger
as each time I think, my rest, my
sleep fails me. And as it happens
all remains hidden; metaphor and
all expression, the hearts of boring
old tone and texture prove lazy and lost
a childish poor effort lost where only thorns
grow. Where only storms blow; this life doomed
consequently is thrown; again and again it fails me.
I go and sit in muddy waters; here the lines I muse
prove too much of that barren desert, only pea
gravel and not insects or flowers dare be there
what I face instead rises; every time my thoughts
probe whatever's, the charms sink and fail to meet
at that place to be. Like a putrid chunk of lamb
giving me intestinal flatulence and pressure.