Contributor: Allen Taylor
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I awoke one morning to the sound of footfall under the covers. The sounds of boots, pedes shod and unshod, hooves of human miscreants, and stomping substructures pounding upon my fundament. Shouts of protests accompanied said racket and in truth it amounted to nothing short of bedlam to my naked alarm clock ears.
What I felt was every bit disturbing as the hubbub upon my flaps. The clamorous clang upon my orifice made a madhouse seem quite sane.
They gathered first in small numbers, then the maelstrom grew. A peaceful protest against the residents of my inner parts. Some of the dissidents carried signs, signs which read, “Down with the 1%,” or “Liar, Beggerman, Thief.” A few derided in anger the status of the turds that lingered deep within my colon; others arrived simply to join in something bigger than their helpless unholy selves.
By noon there were hounding hapless hooves gathering around my nipples. Others formed in my pits. And behind my knees. But the demonstration at the opening of my ass grew louder and larger than them all.
It wasn’t long before peace turned to violence. A Praetorian Guard formed to quell the verbal protestations, to ensure they did not whirl too far out of control. Armed and armored, the Guard held back the chanting mob preventing insults and barbs from reaching the primal intellects of those too-well-off objects of scorn.
Protesters were sprayed. They were beat. They were splayed. Whacked in their obliques. Cursed and coursed, they were driven from their parks, arrested, driven from their lawful places.
By nightfall they’d begun to march. I felt the plunging paws prodding deeper and deeper into my brawny manhole, diving into divers places, advancing upon the turds hiding out in their penthouses in the far reaches of my colon. Protesters progressed beyond the shit, headed toward my ileum tramping and traipsing into the bile, the residue of digested particles lingering in my tubes. Their chants continued. Their insults grew louder as they made their way into my jejunum. Verbal assaults plowed my eardrums until I thought I’d go insane. Extremities pushed their way through pepsin, acid, protein, and blood and found their way to a placid duodenum, relentless in their search for justice.
Forging ahead, they announced with every step, “We are the 99%. We are coming for our fair share!”
Into the sac of my stomach they plummeted, stomping their insistence into acid, enzyme, and sludge. They circled themselves around the exterior of my digestive walls. Chanting, screaming, haunting the canals and wide open spaces.
“We want jobs!”
They would not stop.
“Give us more!”
It became unbearable.
“Down with the guards of injustice!”
They grew louder, more vehement.
“Cronies of establishment, we want you! Come out of your towers. Meet with equals in the square. We are the 99% and we – are – here!”
No sooner had their percussives vibrated on tympanics a flood of juices washed away the peacefulness of their protests. All went silent. But in the darkness of my body, from esophagus to gloried exit, there bounced a tepid echo that will go on forever, from wall to wall to wall.
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Allen Taylor is a published poet and fiction writer living in Pennsylvania. He has a wife, three grandchildren, and some stepchildren who claim him as Dad. An Iraq War veteran, he is the author of http://rumsfeldssandbox.com and is the webmaster at http://www.world-class-poetry.
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I awoke one morning to the sound of footfall under the covers. The sounds of boots, pedes shod and unshod, hooves of human miscreants, and stomping substructures pounding upon my fundament. Shouts of protests accompanied said racket and in truth it amounted to nothing short of bedlam to my naked alarm clock ears.
What I felt was every bit disturbing as the hubbub upon my flaps. The clamorous clang upon my orifice made a madhouse seem quite sane.
They gathered first in small numbers, then the maelstrom grew. A peaceful protest against the residents of my inner parts. Some of the dissidents carried signs, signs which read, “Down with the 1%,” or “Liar, Beggerman, Thief.” A few derided in anger the status of the turds that lingered deep within my colon; others arrived simply to join in something bigger than their helpless unholy selves.
By noon there were hounding hapless hooves gathering around my nipples. Others formed in my pits. And behind my knees. But the demonstration at the opening of my ass grew louder and larger than them all.
It wasn’t long before peace turned to violence. A Praetorian Guard formed to quell the verbal protestations, to ensure they did not whirl too far out of control. Armed and armored, the Guard held back the chanting mob preventing insults and barbs from reaching the primal intellects of those too-well-off objects of scorn.
Protesters were sprayed. They were beat. They were splayed. Whacked in their obliques. Cursed and coursed, they were driven from their parks, arrested, driven from their lawful places.
By nightfall they’d begun to march. I felt the plunging paws prodding deeper and deeper into my brawny manhole, diving into divers places, advancing upon the turds hiding out in their penthouses in the far reaches of my colon. Protesters progressed beyond the shit, headed toward my ileum tramping and traipsing into the bile, the residue of digested particles lingering in my tubes. Their chants continued. Their insults grew louder as they made their way into my jejunum. Verbal assaults plowed my eardrums until I thought I’d go insane. Extremities pushed their way through pepsin, acid, protein, and blood and found their way to a placid duodenum, relentless in their search for justice.
Forging ahead, they announced with every step, “We are the 99%. We are coming for our fair share!”
Into the sac of my stomach they plummeted, stomping their insistence into acid, enzyme, and sludge. They circled themselves around the exterior of my digestive walls. Chanting, screaming, haunting the canals and wide open spaces.
“We want jobs!”
They would not stop.
“Give us more!”
It became unbearable.
“Down with the guards of injustice!”
They grew louder, more vehement.
“Cronies of establishment, we want you! Come out of your towers. Meet with equals in the square. We are the 99% and we – are – here!”
No sooner had their percussives vibrated on tympanics a flood of juices washed away the peacefulness of their protests. All went silent. But in the darkness of my body, from esophagus to gloried exit, there bounced a tepid echo that will go on forever, from wall to wall to wall.
- - -
Allen Taylor is a published poet and fiction writer living in Pennsylvania. He has a wife, three grandchildren, and some stepchildren who claim him as Dad. An Iraq War veteran, he is the author of http://rumsfeldssandbox.com and is the webmaster at http://www.world-class-poetry.
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Author:
Allen Taylor
