Although my favorite poem on this website is regarding rectal stumps. Bill just posted another nice poems:
INCIDENTS AND ACCIDENTS.
This tale is of an ostomate
but told for those who irrigate.
For I feel it may be they
who will envisage what I say.
Today I had an incident,
a torrid horrid accident.
Right in the middle of my flush
it all came out in one big rush.
This would not have been so bad
except the wafer came unclad.
Now those of you who know this scene
will know exactly what I mean.
When you're flushing pressure grows
then stomas act like volcanoes.
The faeces always takes its course
erupting with enormous force.
There's little I could do although
I quickly tried to stem the flow.
But a cupped hand won't stem the tide
of all that faeces held inside.
In the first explosive wave
I knew not how it would behave.
With no way of controlling it
I was head to toe in slimy shit.
Then when I thought I'd do no more
shit shot across the bathroom floor.
It showered like a rainy squall
and soon was spread on every wall.
Though I showered and cleaned as well
I failed to clear up all the smell.
Although it took me half the night
to try to put this whole mess right.
But now I've given up instead
and think that I'll just go to bed.
B. Withers
