Fart

solitude

The smell of gases that a tiny hole throws
Is caught by the nose
A little aroma from your end-plumbing
That other noses repulse
And yours rejoice.

There is nothing remotely musical
As that little noise in your colon
Caught in a colon-burp
Accompanying a little heartbeat, a little drag of lungs
And some finger tips playing desk-music
Making a little flesh-wind instrument
Part of a small orchestra.

Some music for the silent night
Some company for the lonesome man.

 

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